An American girl in Munich : impressions of a music student

J;.C.

GIRL IN MUNICH

SSIONS OF A. MUSIC STUDENT

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in 2016

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An American Girl
in Munich

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A merican Girl
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Impressions of a Music Student

By

Mabel IV. Daniels

1908

Copyright , 1905,

By Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved

Published March, 1905

^printers

S. J. Takkhill <fc Co., Boston, U. S. A.

To Mutterchen

ixxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXxXXxxxXXXxxX:

An American Girl in

Munich

Munich, September 15, 1902 .
Dear Cecilia: —

H

ERE I AM IN MY MECCA
at last after a “ calm sea and pros-
perous voyage.” Would that you
were with me to share my pleasures, and,
yes, I am selfish enough to add, my troubles,
too, for you have such a magical power of
charming away the latter that they seem
but trifling vexations. Then I should so
enjoy watching your delicious blue eyes
open wide at these Germans and their queer
customs, and oh ! how you would elevate
the tip of your aristocratic nose at my box
of a study, which, however, I consider the
height of cosiness and comfort — from a
German standpoint.

Lest by this last remark I ’ve imperilled
my reputation for patriotism, let me hasten
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An American Girl in Munich

to assure you that I am as far from adopt-
ing a foreign point of view in my contem-
plation of Man and the Universe as when
we used to walk from college down to Har-
vard Square and “ have out ” the discussions
kindled by our four o’clock lecture. It’s
only in the concrete things of life that I ’ve
been forced to abandon my Bostonian, and
therefore, of course, unimpeachable stand-
ards. I have learned how unwise a thing it
would be for me to say to a German land-
lady, “ Show me an apartment with running
water, steam heat, electric lights, and a
porcelain bath-tub.” The poor bewildered
creature would give me over at once into
the hands of the omnipotent Folizei on the
ground of insanity. But perhaps, after all,
the best way of explaining myself is to fol-
low the injunction in your letter : “ Begin at
the beginning and tell me all about it.”
Mutter chen and I arrived at Munich late
in the evening, and went directly to a hotel
near the station, where we slept soundly
after our long trip. Early the next morning
I set out to look for a permanent abode. On
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my list were a number of well-recommended
pensions , and I chose, naturally, the nearest
at hand. It was not so easy to find as I had
at first thought, for a German street has a
queer fashion of changing its name every
few blocks, so I deemed it wisest to inquire
the way of a passer-by. Frankly, I had
rather prided myself on my knowledge of
the language, fondly imagining that I should
have no trouble in understanding it or in
making myself intelligible. With that sub-
lime assurance born only of ignorance, I
approached an honest-faced workman, and
in a charmingly idiomatic sentence inquired
the shortest way to Barer-strasse. He
stared at me hard for a moment, and then
burst into a flood of harsh-sounding words,
not one of which fell
I was puzzled for a moment, but, thinking
I must have mistaken his nationality, I
bowed my thanks and made my way to a
policeman on the corner, who, by the bye,
wears a gleaming helmet like those of the
soldier chorus in “ Faust.” His answer was
fully as incomprehensible as the other, and

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familiarly on my ear.

An American Girl in Munich

I realized suddenly, with an overwhelming
sense of helplessness, that this strange-sound-
ing tongue must be the Bavarian dialect, and
to understand it would require a totally new
vocabulary. My enthusiasm was distinctly
dampened, but I bravely opened the Red
Book, which I had hitherto scorned, and un-
folding the map of Munich to its full extent,
I laboriously studied the tangle of black and
red lines for a quarter of an hour before I
found the desired street.

To reach the pension took but a short
time, and I was relieved to discover that the
landlady spoke north German and a little
English. She was a large, red-cheeked,
breezy person, and I felt very much like a
small boat in tow of a big ship, as I meekly
followed at her heels, while she showed me
her vacant rooms, accompanying her smiles,
bows, and gesticulations with a torrent of
volubility. Finally she ushered me into a
stuffy room, over-crowded with furniture,
which she proudly called the 6l ‘ salon,” and
pointing out as piece de resistance a decrepit,
yellow-keyed piano, announced that it was

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An American Girl in Munich

“ for the use of the guests.” But the change,
dear Cecilia, when I, like the stage villain,
disclosed my identity ! The alluring smile
melted in a trice ; the persuasive tones dis-
appeared for the sharp rasp of the up-to-date
business woman. I learned that a music
student was regarded as an incubus, and
shunned accordingly. Practice hours must
be limited from, perhaps, nine- thirty to
twelve and from four to seven. The only
possible room was up four flights. Did I
use the loud pedal much ? Did I play any
“ pieces ” or only “ five-finger exercises ” ?

I cannot tell you all the questions she
hurled at me. Suffice it to say, I left, down-
cast and disheartened, only to meet practi-
cally the same experience at each pension in
turn. If there were already a music student
in possession, that was the signal for me in-
stantly to withdraw. If there were none, I
found the rooms so undesirable, or practice
hours so limited, that to remain was
impossible.

At length I chanced to encounter, return-
ing from her mornings work at the Pin-

[9]

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akothek, an art student whom I had met on
the steamer, and she told me of a house
where she thought there were no Musi-
kers as yet. With an anxious heart I
hurried up the narrow stairs, and interviewed
the landlady, who proved to be a most genial
creature. An hour later we had left the
hotel and were ensconced as proud posses-
sors of two adjoining rooms. The larger we
use for a sleeping-room, and the smaller is
dignified by the name of “ salon.” It is
there that I am to work, and I have already
succeeded in making it a little more home-
like, by placing a screen to mitigate the de-
pressing hideousness of the stove, and by
setting out my photographs on desk and
table. I have, too, tacked on the wall the
Glee Club pictures and several snapshots
which you took that memorable spring day
in the Yard.

The pension itself is small. Indeed, the
Frau Baronin — which is the title with
which I am to address my landlady — tells
me she seldom has more than ten guests in
the house. She also says that most of her

An American Girl in Munich

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pensionnaires are German, for which we are
grateful. I cannot understand why so many
Americans come over here expecting to
see something of the life and then establish
themselves in one of those hotel-like board-
ing-houses where the majority of the inmates
speak only the English tongue.

The view from our windows is charming,
for Maximilians-Platz is one of the most at-
tractive spots in the city. As I look down
on the waving trees and green lawns dotted
with flowers, I forget that I am in the city
at all. Leaning out on the ledge, with
the warm breath of the wind on my fore-
head, the twittering of birds and the soft
plash of the fountain in my ears, the temp-
tation to revel in all sorts of Arcadian
dreams would be fairly irresistible, were not
this idyllic illusion suddenly put to flight by
the prosaic rumble of passing trams, which
straightway brings me down to the com-
monplace.

Really, I didn’t introduce that fountain
just to create a romantic description, though
it does sound rather like a daily theme.

[11]

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The best part of it is it’s real, — and the
loveliest thing in Miinchen. You can read
about it any day in the Red Book, and can
discover countless pictures of it, but, believe
me, nothing can give you an idea of its
sound as one stands at a little distance. If
I were to score it I should use the strings
and a harp — the former divided and sub-
divided as in the prelude to Lohengrin ;
and then perhaps I ’d add a clarinet to give
the effect of the birds’ call which mingles
exquisitely with the plaintive music of the
water.

Later.

My first appearance in German society
was made last evening at seven-thirty. We
were shown by Gretchen, our stout maid,
into the dining-room, — a large room with
a long table in the centre, about which a
number of people were sitting. At one end
was the Baron. He is very fat, very jovial,
and very red of face. Precisely the same
adjectives somewhat intensified might be
applied to his wife, who sat opposite. When
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neither of them was talking, they were
laughing in the most infectious fashion
imaginable. Isn’t it queer to picture the
nobility of Europe as running boarding-
houses ? I rather fancied I might see some
of its members riding by in magnificent
carriages, with high-stepping horses and
clashing chains. I had pictured them as
lounging against the cushions of their
coaches with an air of bored grandeur, while
somewhere in the background shone a glint
of ermine, — but behold ! German aristoc-
racy bursts upon me in my landlord and
landlady.

Mutterchen was given the place of honor
at the Baron’s right. I sat next. My vis-
a-vis was a Frenchman whom I heard them
addressing as “ Herr Doktor.” He was as
typical of his nation as the Baron of his, and
surveyed me critically from behind his gold-
rimmed spectacles. It did not take me
long to discover that he was intensely proud
of his English, which was very bad. On
his left sat Frau von Waldfel, a Hungarian,
who monopolized the conversation in a high,
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rasping voice, and whose red cheeks, prom-
inent nose, and beady black eyes bespoke
aggressiveness of the most aggressive type.
Then came Karl, the Baron’s son, a stout,
mischievous, frank-faced boy of fourteen,
and on my right hand sat a blond-haired
young man of about five and twenty, whom
I should have acknowledged handsome had
not his face been disfigured by several scars.
I put him down at once as a student, for I
had not travelled through Heidelberg on
my way southward without learning some-
thing of the duelling custom. We were
eight in all.

The first meal in a strange pension is an
awful ordeal. We both rather dreaded it,
the more so as no one present spoke Eng-
lish, except Frau von Waldfel, and we were
rather timid about airing our knowledge of
German. Then, too, every one seemed to
converse so fast that the words fairly tum-
bled over one another. Whenever I heard
a totally strange phrase I soothed my pride
by saying, sotto voce , to Mutterchen , “ Again
that demoniacal dialect ! ” The Baron and
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Baroness were extremely kind, however, and
did their utmost to make us feel at home,
while Frau von Waldfel was in her element.
These foreigners do so appreciate an oppor-
tunity to practise their English !

Between the continual making and con-
suming of numberless small sandwiches,
which she prepared in a marvellously skilful
fashion from her bread and butter, she con-
versed in the following manner, never paus-
ing for a reply :

“ Have you been to Dresden or Hamburg
or Berlin ? I don’t care for those cities at
all. They ’re frightful. Why, they simply
starve you ! Of course in Hamburg one
does find good meat pie ; the only decent
thing in Dresden is the pastry. But give
me Vienna ! That ’s the city of Europe !
One can get most be-au-ti-ful things to eat
there.”

Shades of the Sistine ! Fancy travelling
through Europe “ for thy stomach’s sake ” !
Possibly, however, this is no more unworthy
an object than that of an American girl
whom I met yesterday. “ Like Munich ?

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An American Girl in Munich

I should rather say not. There isn’t one
decent shop in the place ! ”

Just to think of all the articles they are
writing at home to prove that we are fast
developing an artistic sense !

Anything more inconvenient than the
arrangement of meals would be hard to find
— with the exception of breakfast. This is
served when and where you want it and con-
sists of rolls and coffee. It seems we are
especially lucky inasmuch as we receive
honey also “ without extra charge,” as the
Baroness impressively added. At eleven
o’clock comes the Zw cites Fr'uhstuck which
I rather imagine I shall omit. At one
occurs Mittagsessen , a pompous meal re-
quiring at least an hour. At five every one
has afternoon coffee and a bit of cake. I
hear there are any number of beguiling out-
door cafes where one can sit under the
trees and hear good music. At seven-thirty
your true son of Germany hungers yet
again, and Abendessen (supper) is served.
If, however, one wishes to attend any form
of entertainment he must eat a cold supper
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early, in a bare and deserted dining-room,
for the opera and concerts generally begin
at seven o’clock. Do not imagine, my dear,
that the German can now go to bed satis-
fied, for the Baroness assures me that he
either sets out at once for a beer-hall and
lingers over his stein all the evening, or
about ten he has brought to his room such
soporific things as cheese sandwiches, cold
sausage, and, of course, the inevitable bever-
age. It ’s simply impossible for people to
be hungry here. They don’t have time to
acquire an appetite.

Good night to you now, for it is growing
late. I wonder what it will all be like,
everything seems so strange now, and I feel
as though I were a year’s journey from
America. Well, I shall do my best to
write you all that happens. My plan is to
keep a musical journal ; that is, a record
of all that occurs relating to my studies,
and occasionally you won’t mind, will you,
if I copy an item or two from that into
your letters ? It will seem so much more
as though I were talking to you if I scribble
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down things from day to day and then send
the whole off in a batch, instead of writing
in the conventional way one generally does.
There is a clock striking now. It must
be that of the two-towered Frauenkirche
which is so near. So this time really good
night and angenehme Ruh\ which means “ a
pleasant rest to you ! ”

September 19.

It was with a certain repressed excitement
that I made my way toward Ainmiiller-
strasse, at half-past eight this morning, to
pay my first visit to Professor Thuille. My
letters of introduction were clasped tightly
in my hand, and I walked so rapidly that by
the time I found myself on the landing be-
fore his door, after climbing several flights
of stairs, — you know every one lives in a
Wohnung (apartment) here, and an elevator
in a dwelling-house is an almost unheard-of
luxury, — I was completely out of breath.
It still lacked fifteen minutes of the ap-
pointed time, so I had ample opportunity to
regain my composure as I sat in the cosy re-
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ception room into which the maid had
ushered me. Behind the closed doors at
the further end of the apartment I could
hear a pupil playing a Beethoven sonata,
and a man’s voice occasionally interrupting.
I adjusted my hat for the twentieth time,
smoothed my hair back over my ears, and
endeavored to appear outwardly as if I were
not at all in a flutter of expectation. Per-
haps my excitement was increased by the
remembrance of the impression I had made
at supper last night, when I casually men-
tioned that I had come to Munich to study
composition with Professor Thuille. Every
one became attentive immediately, and spoke
in the highest terms of his genius as a com-
poser. I felt not a little proud, and some-
what uneasy, at the thought of meeting
him.

“ Richard Strauss was a pupil of his,”
said Herr Doktor, calmly, as he helped
himself to a third piece of black bread.
Thereupon I really trembled. So now, in
order to quiet my nerves, I began to look
about me

[19]

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The first thing which caught my eye was
a landscape in vivid blues and greens, framed
in massive and evidently costly style. From
the inscription beneath I gathered that this
creation was the gift of a grateful chorus to
their “ beloved director, Ludwig Thuille.”
Over the bookcase hung several giant laurel
wreaths, their leaves now crisply yellowing.
To these were attached brilliant, silver-let-
tered ribbons which, as they floated flam-
boyantly against the subdued gray of the
wall-paper, proclaimed that these tokens, too,
were the gifts of appreciative souls. The
table near the door held a beautifully carved
loving-cup of silver also bearing an inscrip-
tion. Truly, gratitude must be the virtue
par excellence of Germany !

If 1 had insensibly acquired an impression
of ostentation from all this array of tributes
— a common custom of every artist here,
they tell me — this vanished the moment
the door opened, for Professor Thuille and
anything like ostentation are as far from one
another as the poles. I was surprised to
see a man so young in appearance, for I had
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in some inexplicable way formed the idea
that he was much older. My second thought
was that I had never seen so charming and
cordial a smile. Of course he shook hands,
as all these people do, and hade me he
seated while he opened the letters. He is
short in stature, with sandy hair, and a long
mustache curled up at the ends in true im-
perial manner. His eyes, blue and kindly,
looked straight and sympathetically at me.
His face is deeply lined and shows tense
sensitiveness in every feature. The rather
strained expression vanishes, however, the
moment he smiles. As he turned over my
letters I noted that the fingers of his right
hand were stained a deep yellow ; already
the faint aroma of cigarette smoke had
reached me. Intuitively I felt that these
two things indicated one of his characteris-
tics. I had happened on the Leitmotif \ as it
were, of Thuille.

“ Ach ! das ist sehr nett!” (That is
very nice !) he said, laying down the letters.
“You know Herr Chadwick and I studied
in the same class in the old Conservatory.

[21]

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It is indeed delightful to hear from him
again. And now about yourself. I under-
stand that you want to study composition
with me, Fraulein,” he continued, looking at
me with kindly scrutiny.

“ If you will take me for a pupil, Herr
Professor,” said I.

“ I think we can arrange it,” he said,
smiling, “ although my time is almost
wholly occupied. Tell me what you have
already studied.”

Whereupon we launched into details,
and he appointed next Wednesday as
the time for my first lesson. He does
not speak a word of English, and I found
him exceedingly difficult to understand,
but he assures me he is accustomed to
foreigners.

“ If we don’t make ourselves intelligible,”
he ended, laughing, “we can try a few
French phrases, or even a bit of Latin, as a
pupil of mine did the other day.” Instead
of my taking leave of him there, he went
out to the very door with me, which he
opened, bowing smilingly, and as it closed
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I felt wonderfully less like a stranger in a
strange land.

At the corner I took a tram back to
town. They are all alike, very short, and
painted the Bavarian blue. Think of a city
so patriotic that the street cars assume
the national hue! The conductor politely
touched his hat to me as I entered. I
thought he must have mistaken me for
some one else till I saw him salute each
passenger in the same courteous manner.
Where Brienner-strasse meets Odeons-Platz
I alighted. This is just by the Feldernhalle.
If you have seen pictures of the Loggia at
Florence you can tell how it looks, for it is
a copy of the Italian building. Here I was

to meet Fraulein L . She is a friend of

the Baroness and had offered to help me in
hiring a piano. That elocution course of
ours proved very valuable to me at this
stage, for had it not been for the telling and
effective gestures with which I supple-
mented my German I might have had in
my study a far less acceptable instrument
than the excellent Bliithner which now
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stands here and for which I pay the ab-
surdly small sum of ten marks (two dollars
and a half) a month.

44 By the bye,” said I, as we were walking
through Theatiner-strasse, 44 did I make a
great many mistakes in my note to you?”
I meant this to sound naively humble,
but in reality I had spent a half-hour on the
composition of those ten lines and I was
rather proud of the result.

44 Oh, no,” she replied, smiling, 44 you
merely asked me to meet you on top of the
Feldernhalle. 1 was wondering,” she added,
mischievously, glancing as we passed at the
buildings imposing height, “just how I
could get up there.”

For several blocks 1 was silent, medita-
ting on the sad results of 44 pride, rank pride
and haughtiness of soul,” although I fully
appreciated her effort at a joke. Such pleas-
antries are almost unheard of in German
girls, and whenever they do say anything
facetious they look very much frightened,
as though at a loss whether to apologize at
once or explain how it came to happen. I
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must send you one of the comic papers.
They considerately print the point of a joke
in italics. One has at least the satisfaction
of knowing when to laugh, a virtue not to
be despised when one considers the subtle-
ties of modern wit, so called.

44 This is where I buy my music,” said

Friiulein L , stopping before a small

store, “ and if it pleases you I will introduce
you here.”

Accordingly we went in, and after meet-
ing the proprietor I was initiated into the
mysteries of that very important factor in a
student’s life, an abonnement . One pays

a small sum for the privilege of taking out
music from a circulating library for a defi-
nite length of time. The arrangement im-
pressed me at once as advantageous, and 1
inquired as to the kinds of music the cata-
logue contained. 44 Why, songs, operas,
overtures, anything you care for,” said the
proprietor, in a patronizing tone.

44 Then I can get orchestral scores,” I said.

44 Orchestral scores ? ” he cried, starting
back as though I had asked him to pluck the
[25]

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moon out of the sky. “ My dear young lady,
what can you possibly want of orchestral
scores ? ” We should call this impudence
in America, but I really do not think he in-
tended it as such. He had simply not come
much in contact with the modern Ameri-
can girl. After explanation on both sides,
I found, however, that it would be better
for me to obtain scores from the Conserva-
tory, which I intend to enter, and where, I
learn, all the standard scores are on hand.

You would hardly believe me if I should
tell you how many bareheaded, blue-
aproned girls we met carrying beer through
the streets during our walk home. But my
surprise at the sight was lost in greater
amazement at beholding the number of
steins they are able to carry at one time.
Not two or three, my dear, but six, yes,
even ten, in one hand. It is an art in itself.
If one is careless and holds the handful a
quarter of an inch from perpendicular, the
beer comes oozing out at the top and tric-
kles on the sidewalk. This disturbs no one
in the least. As we passed the droschky
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stand on Max-Josepli-Platz about eleven
o’clock, there stood all the cabbies lounging
against their carriages or ranged along the
curbstones, leisurely drinking great steins of
frothy beer which one of these blue-aproned
girls had just brought. When they finished
they set their empty mugs on the window
ledges of the building. Imagine a dozen of
our hackmen draining steins on Brimstone
Corner and then leaving them in a row on
the steps of Park Street Church !

How can I write you about the evening
or rather afternoon and evening which fol-
lowed ? When I tell you that it was my
first hearing of “ Tristan and Isolde ” in the
wonderful new Prince Regent Theatre, are
you surprised that I hesitate ? I will let you
read for yourself in the infallible Red Book
of the unique construction of the house
which is used for the reproduction of
W agner’s operas alone, of the peculiar stage,
and of that stroke of genius, the concealed
orchestra. If I attempted any explanations
I should fail lamentably, for all else is for-
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gotten in the memory of that glorious music.
The crowd of magnificently dressed people
promenading between the acts through res-
taurant, garden, and corridors, the strange
types of musicians from every quarter of
the globe, the trumpet calls to summon us
back to our places — all are now a confused
medley of impressions. I only see Knote,
as Tristan, quaffing the fatal draught, and
Ternina, a regal Isolde, waving her white
scarf in the mysterious moonlight of that
most alluring of gardens.

Who was it said that in Tristan the
“ thrills relieve one another in squads ” ? It
seems to me there is no respite : one is swept
along and borne aloft uninterruptedly by
the power of the music — music magical in
its chromatic beauty, tremendous in its in-
tensity. Breathless, at the final fall of the
curtain, I hardly realized my physical ex-
haustion till we reached home. The strain
in endeavoring to follow the multi -woven
orchestration, as well as the action, had not
been a light one.

During one of the pauses I caught sight

[28]

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of a slender, rather pale young man elbow-
ing his way through the crowd. I turned
to look at him, for his face struck me as
strangely familiar. Who do you think it
was ? Siegfried JVagner ! Fancy what
his feelings must be to see all this homage
paid to his father’s genius.

Sunday .

As a result of my intoxication last night
— if one may so call it — 1 overslept this
morning and was in danger of being late to
church. In fact, the people were already
on their knees when we entered the little
chapel which is the home of American
church life here. The name chapel is only
applied out of compliment, for it is really a
large room with improvised altar at one end,
a piano in the corner, and rows of chairs for
pews. It seemed, however, as fine as a
cathedral to us, and how beautiful it sounded
to hear those familiar old prayers again in
our mother tongue, while everywhere with-
out these walls was the babble of a foreign
language.

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At the close of the service, as the rector
was reading that most impressive of prayers,
the prayer for those at sea, and we were fol-
lowing with more than usual devoutness, for
the dangers and perils of the great deep
were still very real to us, bang ! the blare of
trumpet, thud of drum, and thunder of
trombone burst on the stillness, and the
sound of a lively march, the sort to make
one’s feet tingle, came ever louder and
louder to our ears. I expected to see
the rector’s face change and to hear him
hurriedly close, but no, his voice kept on
peacefully, unconcernedly, and the people
knelt absorbed as though the thought of
worldly things was far removed. I must
confess I found it hard to keep my mind
fastened on the spiritual ; it was my first
experience of hearing anything from the
ritual accompanied by Sousa music, and
the irreverence shocked me.

I was eager to inquire about the music,
but after the service, as we reached the end
of the aisle, the rector came forward with
outstretched hand. The consul, to whom
[30]

An A merican Girl in Munich

we had letters, had told him of the two new
strangers in the colony, and his welcome was
most cordial.

“ I want you both to come to tea at the
Russicher Hof to-morrow, if you will par-
don the unconventionality of my invitation,”
said his wife, a bustling little woman in black.
“ There will be several music students on
hand and it may be pleasant for you to meet
one another.” We thanked her heartily.
One appreciates these things so much when
away from home.

The music had now begun again, this time
abandoning the martial for the romantic,
and giving out the opening strains of Von
Weber’s overture to Der Freischiltz .

“It’s more than a brass band,” said I,
urging Miitterchen along. “ There are
clarinets and flutes. Do let’s hurry.”

We turned down the little archway which
led from the chapel door to the main street,
and voila! there was a picture well worth
seeing. Have I explained that in front of
the Feldernhalle is a triangular open space ?
This now was thronged with a gayly attired
[31]

An American Girl in Munich

crowd, who were promenading up and down
or chatting in small groups, while from the
balcony of the Feldernhalle itself came the
sound of inspiring music played by the great
military band of the city.

One caught the irresistible charm of color
enhanced by sunshine. The scarlet uni-
forms of the officers who were everywhere,
the bright caps of the students, the gleam-
ing helmets of the officials set off against
the dark background of the Alte Residenz
lent an artistic touch to a scene already
brilliant.

“Is n’t it splendid ? ” cried I, excitedly, as
we moved along with the laughing throng.
“Just see, Miltterchen , there’s an officer
kissing that lady’s hand. It ’s like a scene
from a play.”

“ It ’s all a rather strange sight on Sun-
day,” replied Miltterchen , smiling gently.

I suddenly remembered my Puritan an-
cestors and felt I ought to shut my ears to
the fascinating lilt of the “ Merry Wives of
Windsor” overture.

“ I don’t believe Cotton Mather himself
[32]

An American Girl in Munich

would call these people wicked,” I said,
with a glance at the happy crowd about me.

Just then the student from our pension
passed us with a low bow. There were a
number of young men with him, all wearing
round caps of black and purple. (The col-
ors indicate the corps or club to which they
belong.) Do you know that the men bow
first in this country ? To the masculine sex
is allotted the right to accept or reject an
acquaintance. Is n’t that truly German ?

We were glad that Herr Martens had
condescended to recognize us, for it gave us
a pleasant sensation to realize we were not
utterly unacquainted in that great throng of
people. Not two minutes later, who should
swoop down upon us but Frau von Wald-
fel. Cecilia mia, don’t let me hear of your
banishing “ swoop ” to the category of slang.
I am much attached to that invaluable
word. Have you ever seen a gull circling
with wide-spread wings above a fish in the
water beneath, and then suddenly dart
down and bear away his prey ? When cer-
tain people accost me this picture invariably
3 [ 33 ]

An American Girl in Munich

comes to my mind. Frau von Waldfel
swoops down and captures one like the gull,
while I play the part of the unfortunate fish.

“ So you are enjoying the Parada, are
you ? ” she began. She had once spent a
season in London, and so caught the
English habit of making her remarks inter-
rogative. “We always have this music
every Sunday. I ’ve been doing a little
shopping, you see, on my way home from
church.” (She pointed to a number of
small packages under her arm.) “ I’ve or-
dered some cakes sent up to the pension.
Did you know the tarts here are not nearly
so good as those in Berlin ? Dear me, I
have quite forgotten whether you said you
had been there or not. Your daughter is
such a quiet girl,” she added to Mutterchen ,
“ I never can draw her out.”

Miitterchen gave an involuntary gasp at
this last remark.

“ Are all the stores open Sunday ? ” I
said, endeavoring to show I could make
conversation. All I needed was an oppor-
tunity.

[34]

An American Girl in Munich

“ Of course ! Why not ? ” she answered,
as we turned our steps towards Maximilian-
Platz. “ They close at one o’ clock ; on
other days at half-past seven in the evening.
I ’m a regular guide-book, much more prac-
tical than that red one I see you carry.
Speaking of Berlin tarts, I want to tell you

that I never ate ” and so on — can’t

you hear her ? — till we reached the door.

We spent a quiet afternoon reading and
writing letters. After supper the Baroness
invited us to come into the salon. “ I
always try to make Sunday evening a pleas-
ant time,” she said. What was our surprise
on entering to see them all seated around
a table playing cards. They seemed much
disappointed that we did not join them.

If this letter of mine is posted to-night, it
will catch the New York mail steamer, so
I shall send it out now by Georg, the man-
servant of the house. Auf WiederseJien ,
and don’t forget I am hungry for news of
everything at home.

[35]

rxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxixxxxxxxxxxxxxxxixxxxxxxxxixxxixxxixiiiixixxxixxiixxzxi:

October 4.

Top o' the morning , Cecy dear !

UCH A GLORIOUS, ALLE-

gro vivace day ! The sun is shining,

the air is crisp and cool, and the
sauciest of breezes is coquetting with the
tree-tops in the Platz. It gets into one’s
blood, a morning like this, and the wildest
dreams seem possible of fulfilment. I came
home from my lesson humming the theme
of the scherzo of Beethoven’s eighth sym-
phony. It seemed to fit the buoyancy of
my mood as nothing else could.

I can see you smile now and hear you
say, “ It ’s quite evident she is happy in her
new surroundings.” Exactly so, my dear,
and there are so many delightful things to
tell you about that I don’t know where to
begin. However, the Conservatory forms
one of the most vital elements of my new
life here, so I ’ll start by telling you of my
first visit there.

Be it known, then, that the Royal Con-
servatory of Munich, to give it its full title,

[39]

An American Girl in Munich

opened the eighteenth, and promptly at nine
o’clock I made my way thither. What a
rambling old building it is, and how re-
plete with association ! So many musicians
have studied here at some time or other,
although Rheinberger and many of the
teachers who have made it famous are now
memories of the past. With a certain in-
definable thrill I realized I was actually
within these walls.

Instead of the Herein! which I expected
to hear in response to my knock on the
door of the director’s room, Stavenhagen
himself opened the door. I wonder if you
heard him play when he was in Amer-
ica. He ’s a handsome man, not much
above thirty, with blue eyes, firm chin,
straight nose, and curly blond hair and
mustache.

In fact, he has all the delightful character-
istics of a German, and none of the unlovely
ones. Besides this, he is tall, a rarity in
men of his nation.

4 4 Eine Amerikanerin ! ” he said pleasantly,
pushing a chair forward. “ I speak a lee-tle
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exxixxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxixxxxxxxiiixxxxxzxxxxixxxxxxxxxxxxx]

English, but,” he went on in German,
“ perhaps we will make more progress if I
stick to my mother tongue.”

“ 1 speak a very little German,” said I, smil-
ing, not feeling in the least afraid of him,
and forthwith explained my situation and
what I wished to do at the school. A
little man, whose face, beard, and hair all
seemed the same reddish color, was looking
over a pile of letters in the corner of the
room. He now glanced up at me curiously
as I began my inquiries about the Partitur
Lesen (score reading) class of which I had
read in the catalogue.

You know that five years ago women
were not allowed to study counterpoint at
the Conservatory. In fact, anything more
advanced than elementary harmony was de-
barred. The ability of the feminine intellect
to comprehend the intricacies of a stretto, or
cope with double counterpoint in the tenth, if
not openly denied, was severely questioned.
This carefully nourished conservatism has
yielded considerably. The counterpoint
class is now open to women, although as yet
[41]

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comparatively few avail themselves of the
opportunity. Formerly, too, all the teachers
in the Conservatory were men, but one finds
to-day two women enrolled as professors
among the forty on the list.

“ I should like to enter the Partitur Lesen
class,” said I, innocently, not then having
learned all this.

Stavenhagen looked at the little man.
The little man looked back at Stavenhagen.
If I had thrown a bombshell they could not
have appeared more startled. The little
man at once abandoned his letters and stood
staring, a few feet in front of me.

“There have never been any women in
the class. I am right, am I not, Herr Sek-
retcir 1 ” said Stavenhagen.

“ You are right, Herr Direktor ,” responded
the other. He held his hands behind him
and gazed at me as one might at a curious
species of animal. 1 felt I ought to be
tagged, like those poor creatures in the Zoo,
“Rare. From North America.”

“Is the class full, Herr Sekretar ? ” in-
quired Stavenhagen.

[42]

A n American Girl in Munich

“ About thirty men have registered, Herr
Direktor ,” solemnly answered the secretary.

There was a pause.

“ Have you ever played string quartets
from score, Friiulein?” inquired the director.

“ Yes, Herr Direktor ,” said I, with that
supreme calmness which comes at times
when one is inwardly much disturbed.
Again there was a pause. Even I began to be
impressed by the solemnity of the occasion.

“ Of course,” said the director, “because a
Friiulein never has joined the class is no
reason why a Friiulein never can.”

“Not at all,” said the secretary. The
gravity of his expression was worthy a
crisis in the affairs of state.

The two men walked to the other side
of the room, and while they conversed in
whispers I stood gazing out of the window
at the equestrian statue in the Platz, unable
to hide the smile at the corners of my
mouth. Although conscious of my many
peculiarities, I had never before considered
myself an abnormal being, and to be so re-
garded struck me as amusing.

[43]

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It seemed to take them a long time to
come to a decision. When my impatience
had subsided to a state of hopelessness,
Stavenhagen came forward.

“ Your request is unusual, Fraulein,” he
began, “ but — but — well, you may come
on Friday at three o’clock.”!,

With a sigh of relief I bowed myself out
in approved German fashion, feeling as
might the immortal Napoleon after a hard-
won victory.

The first Kaim-Saal concert of the season
came in the evening. The Kaim-Saal is a
splendid hall with a large organ, where most
of the concerts are held. There was a fine
program including Beethoven’s first sym-
phony. I was greatly interested to see
Weingartner conduct. Tie looked very
young as he stepped to the platform. He
is slight and dark, with brown, clever eyes.
I must confess that at first I did not like his
conducting at all. It seemed to me extreme
and even sensational. However, as I became
accustomed to his extravagant methods, the
earnestness and power of the man impressed
[ 44 ]

A n American Girl in Munich

me more and more. When it came to the
Beethoven number he directed without
score. He fairly swept the orchestra along,
and his every gesture was pregnant with
meaning. I could not help thinking of
Gericke’s straight immovable figure as I saw
Weingartner wave wildly to right and left,
rise on tiptoe, sway forward, and now, by
one tense, quick movement of his stick,
bring his men to a grand climax. Some-
times he even let his beat cease entirely and
his arm drop to his side, while the orchestra
seemed to carry itself along like a wheel
which continues revolving after the force
which propelled it has stopped.

My enthusiasm caught fire from his, and
at the close of the concert I was cheering as
wildly as the rest of the audience. I can’t
tell you how many times he came forward
to bow his thanks amid the cries of “ Bravo !
Bravo ! ” He seemed to enjoy it all hugely
and kept smiling down on us. When he
does that his face loses every bit of dignity
and he looks like nothing so much as a
roguish boy.

[45]

An American Girl in Munich

On our way down to the Garderobe ,
where every one checks one’s things for the
fee of twenty pfennigs (five cents), we met

Mr. B . He is a harmless young curate

from the north of England ; one of those
men who have soft, gentle voices, Van Dyke
beards, and always sit on the edge of a chair.
He had been to the church tea that after-
noon, and shown a praiseworthy desire to
make himself agreeable.

“ Ah, good evening,” he said, “ was it not
a beautiful concert ? And so uplifting ! I

see you have the score to — to ”

“ The Beethoven symphony,” I replied.

“ Oh, yes. Beethoven has indeed caught
the spiritual note, don’t you think so ? It
seems to me he is at his best in that won-
derful adagio vivace movement! ! ”

I must not forget to tell you that we have
two new arrivals at the pension , namely, the
Poet and his wife. I have n’t the slightest
idea what their name is except that it is very
long and very unpronounceable. She is a
dear little placid-faced woman of middle
age, and he looks like one of Raphael’s
[46]

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HIIIIIII IITTTTTTTTTTTXTXXXIXIXXXXXZXIXIXXXIIIZXII XI in IZIZIIXXZXIXZXTXXXZXXJ

cherubs in twentieth century clothes. In
spite of his infantile expression, however, I
hear he has quite a reputation among men
of letters.

A Fraulein Hartmann is expected to-
morrow, and that will complete our house-
hold for the winter. She is the niece of
Frau von Waldfel, who declares they greatly
resemble each other. I can just imagine her :
younger but with the same stout figure,
rasping voice, and beady eyes ! I do hope
she won’t be put next me at table.

To-day, while we were waiting in the
salon for dinner to be announced, I
chanced to play a few bars from a piece
by MacDowell.

“Is that by your national composer,
Sousa ? ” inquired Herr Doktor.

I hastily informed him that it was not.

“ Why ! I did n’t know you had any other
composers of importance,” he remarked, with
interest.

It is a sad but true fact that American
music has, as yet, won no footing in
Germany.

[47]

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rrTTiTmTTTTTTTTTmryiTixiiTxiixxxximm.ix'ixxxxrrxixxixiiiiiiiriiTtiTTTT^

W ednesday.

This afternoon I had my first lesson with
Thuille. 1 arrived just as the clock was
striking two, and was shown at once into
a large room, which in its furnishings
and harmony of color betrays the artistic
nature of its owner. An atmosphere of
cigarette smoke hung about everything, and
through the floating clouds by the win-
dows I discerned Thuille just taking a
final puff, tossing his cigarette away and
coming to meet me with outstretched
hand.

“ Ach ! Guten Tag, Frauldn !” he said,
with a genial smile which put me instantly
at my ease. Then he pulled forward a chair
beside his own at the desk and bade me be
seated. As I took my place a big white
and brown hunting dog crawled out from
the corner.

“ This is my greatest pet,” explained the
professor, caressing the dog, who looked up
with devoted eyes at his master’s face. “I
call him Tasso. Tasso, let me introduce
[48]

An American Girl in Munich

you to a young American lady ! Make a
bow and then lie down.”

Tasso obeyed in the cleverest fashion,
Thuille watching him with pride. This
introduction over, he turned to begin the
lesson.

I had brought, as he requested, all the
past work which I had with me, and he
spent the entire hour in looking it over,
asking questions and arranging a plan of
study. I told him that I wanted that firm
foundation which German thoroughness
gives one, and he suggested that I begin by
a review commencing with four-part choral
writing, then simple counterpoint, and so on.
This will form what I call the technical part
of my study, and besides this I am to do a
certain amount of free work and orchestra-
tion. Does n’t it sound interesting ? I
hurried home in a fever of impatience to
begin the lesson he has given me for Satur-
day, only to find callers in the salon. They
proved to be two New York girls, also music
students. They are studying piano with
Frau Langenhan-Hirzel, who is herself a
4 [49]

A n American Girl in Munich

pupil of Leschetizky. Both are intensely
enthusiastic over their work, and practise
from five to six hours a day. After our

coffee, Miss B offered to show me where

her studio was, so, leaving her friend, who
had a lesson, we walked down the Platz and
up seven and ninety stairs to a tiny room

under the eaves. It seems that Miss B

is not allowed to practise in the pension
where she lives, owing to the fact that three
other students are singing, playing, or violin-
scraping all day long, and the F rau landlady
feared that another musician would banish
utterly her supply of winter boarders.

Hence Miss B was forced to seek a

place to practise outside, and finally found
a secluded room on the top floor of an
old house at the very end of the Platz.
In the subduing atmosphere of an under-
taker’s family she has made her musical
home. The room is very small. One
corner of the ceiling has caved in and
threatens momentarily to fall. The only
furniture is a cracked mirror, two rickety
chairs, and a fine grand piano, which
[50]

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rTXTTTTrTTxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxixxxxxxxxxxzxxxxxxj

looks laughably out of place in these
surroundings.

“ There s only one thing that bothers
me,” she said, running over a bit of Chopin.
“Just mark the effect of a forte” She
played a crashing chord, and presto ! the
tiny, diamond panes of the windows rattled
sharply in echo. Again a sforzando chord
rang out, again came the jarring response.

“ Is n’t it awful ? ” she sighed. “ My
nerves are getting worn to shreds ! ”

Believe me, people at home don’t know
one half the trials of Munich music stu-
dents.

October 20 , 10.30 P. M.

To-night we made our first visit to the
Hof -Theatre, which is the main opera house
of the city, and heard Humperdinck’s
Hansel und Gretel. I like the house
immensely, its five balconies in white and
gold are so impressive. The curtain is old
rose in color, and on it the letter L is
inscribed at intervals — for the unfortunate
king, you know. What do you think I

[•511

An American Girl in Munich

paid for my seat? Only fifty-five cents —
and sat, too, in the orchestra. At the Con-
servatory last week I received an oblong bit
of paper, a sort of certificate, which states
that I am pursuing a course of musical
study here. On presenting this at the box
office I can get a seat in the rear of the par-
quet (which corresponds to our orchestra) for
just half price. The seats do not extend
under the balcony, so they are really very
desirable. The extra five cents is for Vorver -
kauft , which means a fee for buying tickets
in advance.

The opera itself is the most charming
thing of its kind I have ever heard. The
story is a fairy-tale concerning the delight-
ful adventures of two children. Bosetti,
a stout little German in spite of the Italian
ring to her name, played Gretel and Fraulein
Tordeck took the part of Hansel. Both
caught the spirit of the piece and sang and
acted excellently. The music is fascinat-
ing in the extreme, and some of it — the
prayer of the two mites in the wood, for
example, which brought the tears to my
[52]

An A merican Girl in Munich

eyes — very beautiful. There is no inter-
ruption. The music continues even during
the pauses between the three so-called pic-
tures of the opera. At the beginning of the
second picture, which is laid in a wood,
Gretel sings the loveliest solo, with the
strings pizzicato and a flute obligato. Then
there is a wonderful scene showing a flight
of golden stairs thronged with white-robed
angels who go up and down, while the
children lie sleeping beneath a tree. If all
the operas are produced as finely as this one
I shall certainly think Germany the heaven
of composers.

Yesterday Fhiulein Hartmann, Frau von
Waldfel’s niece, arrived and proved a most
agreeable surprise. Far from being what I
had pictured, she is the prettiest creature
imaginable, slight, with blue eyes, rosy
cheeks, two fascinating dimples which come
and go as she talks, and a bewildering pro-
fusion of light, fluffy hair which stubbornly
refuses to remain in order, but curls about
her head like a halo. Her aunt is immensely
proud of her, although she treats her like a
[53]

An American Girl in Munich

child. The chief cause of her pride seems
to be that her niece is engaged — verlobt , as
they say — to a German officer. You know
it is considered the thing to marry into the
army here, for it gives a woman at once
the best social position, consequently all the
young lieutenants are run after by diplo-
matic mammas and ambitious daughters,
until I should think they would want to cry
“ Hold ! Enough ! ” I believe the neces-
sary dowry which the girl’s parents pay over
on the wedding day is twelve thousand
marks, unless the bridegroom can show that
he has that amount of money. It is, how-
ever, proverbial that the chief possession of
a lieutenant are his unpaid bills, hence it
seldom occurs that he himself can afford to
marry at his own free will.

Fraulein Hartmann, while essentially
German in type, has an unusually sweet
expression characterized by a curious little
droop at the corners of her mouth which
puzzles me a bit. I am sure it is not the
result of a spoiled nature, for her patience
with her aunt’s querulousness belies that,
[54J

An American Girl in Munich

but it seems rather the expression which we
associate with unhappiness or pain. At any
rate she is decidedly the most interesting
person in the pension , and I hope to know
her better.

Six o'clock .

The day is dying royally, and as I look
out across the now brown and barren tree-
tops of the Platz, I see a sky which is one
blaze of glory. There is always music in
the clouds. Have you never heard the
tender, inspiring melody in soft, fleecy puffs
as they float in a sea of azure — or caught
the melancholy strains of ’cello and oboe in
lowering gray masses against a background
darker still ? On an afternoon like this,
surely you have thrilled in response to the
piercing cry of trumpets, horns, and trom-
bones, in the riotous masses of scarlet, violet,
and gold which flood the heaven ? It does
not last long, this intoxicating draught of
color and melody, for, as I watch, the clouds
dissolve with the resolution of a chord. I
can hear the diminuendo rallentando of the
[55]

An American Girl in Munich

orchestra as the gold dulls, the scarlet fades
to rose, the rose to pink. It hovers — this
last, long streak — in one delicate flush
against the violet sky, while the strings
sustain pianissimo the tonic harmony. Then
it suddenly dies, and the music with it.
The day is done.

[56]

axxxrxTixxxxrzxxixxiixriil

Mu nich, November 8.

EHOLD ME RECOVERING
this morning from the effects of my
— * first participation in German frivol-
ity. The occasion was the Namens-Tag
(name day) of the Baroness.

“You see to-day is mother’s saint’s day,
the one for whom she was named,” explained
Karl, not very clearly, at dinner.

“ Is it the custom to celebrate this instead
of the birthday ? ” I inquired.

Karl looked at me with an expression of
pity at my ignorance.

“ We always have a fete on both days,”
he said, “ with extra wine and a lot of grand
things to eat.”

“ Yes, indeed,” said the Baroness, beaming
from her end of the table.

“ Yes, indeed,” echoed the Baron, beaming
back on her and radiating his delight along
the line of pensionnaires each side. The
eyes of Herr Doktor twinkled as he looked
across at me. I met his glance with a half
[59]

An American Girl in Munich

smile. Neither of us meant to be unkind.
France and America were merely united in
their appreciation of the humorous. Frau
von Waldfel raised her eyebrows disagreea-
bly, and looked as though about to start a
discussion. To mention food in the presence
of that woman is like brandishing a red flag
before a bull. Luckily Herr Doktor saw
the signs of approaching storm, and with
his usual diplomacy turned the trend of
conversation, so that an argument was
averted for this meal at least.

Is there anything more pitiable than a
number of guests, hitherto unknown to one
another, endeavoring to appear at ease as
they wait the summons to dinner ? W e
had thought to avoid this situation by not
appearing till half after seven that evening,
the hour set for the supper party. Imagine,
then, our feelings, when fifteen minutes, a
half hour, three quarters dragged by, and
no vestige of life from the dining-room 1
Everything moves slowly in Germany, and
the culinary department is no exception.
The Baroness never seemed so much like a
[60]

A n A merican Girl in Munich

beneficent angel as when she opened the
dining-room door and invited us to the
table. And now a light shone through
the clouds, for the stupid Count with whom
I had been struggling to converse was
whisked away to the other end of the
table, and Lieutenant Linder, a young man
of about seven and twenty, in the dark
blue and scarlet uniform of Bavaria, took
the place on my left.

Oh, these officers ! They simply own
Munich. When they stride along the street,
the entire sidewalk is their undisputed pos-
session. How their swords clank, how
faultlessly their jackets fit, how their heaven-
ward-pointing mustaches curl ! A few of
them are really handsome, but if not, it
does n’t matter in the slightest. The re-
splendency of their uniforms would make
one forgive almost anything. When I
became accustomed to the atmosphere
of conceit in which Lieutenant Linder
was enveloped, I found him distinctly
entertaining, and, better yet, he had a
sense of humor. What with his helping
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me with my German, and my giving him
a lesson in English, we managed to get on
famously.

The table was profusely decorated with
flowers, and there was a great deal to eat
and more to drink. The idea in cooking
seems to be to produce a color effect. For
example, we had as one course well-browned
sausage surrounded by a mass of bright red
carrots. N ext came the eternal veal, reposing
in a vivid green sea of spinach. Do your
aesthetic sensibilities shrink at these materi-
alistic descriptions ? Remember I am in
a materialistic land, amid a materialistic
people. Truly the problem which contin-
ually confronts me is : how can a people
who seem so lethargic, and who make no
disguise of their love for the product of the
soil and the grape, produce such marvellous,
almost superhuman results in the fields of
music and philosophy ?

I might have meditated at some length on
this question during the Namens-Tag sup-
per, had not the Lieutenant kept up a rapid
conversation, for we were at the table until
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half-past eleven. Not that we were eating
all the time, but the waits between the
courses were very long, and in the middle of
the dinner we had a pause of twenty min-
utes— like an intermission at an assembly
— when the Poet, with marked nervousness,
read some original verses “To the Baroness
on her Name-Day.” The poor woman was
even more embarrassed than he, and so
moved, when at the close we all rose to
drink her health, that two large tears ran
down her fat cheeks.

“ Hoch soil sie leben !” cried Herr Doktor,
clinking his glass to mine. Every one had
to touch his glass to every one else’s or it
was “ no fair,” and of course we all walked
up to the Baroness and touched hers.

When the coffee had at last been served,
we went into the salon carrying away with
us a glass of Bowie , or punch, which is
much milder than anything called by that
name in America. In came a round little
man who took his place at the piano, and
dancing began.

Lieutenant Linder, with an extremely
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low bow, begged gnadiges Frdulein to give
him the honor of the first waltz. Gnadiges
Frdulein consented, and off we started.
The floor was excellent, — you know one
finds hardwood floors everywhere here in-
stead of carpets, — but oh, how fast these
Germans dance ! The Lieutenant swung
me round and round in a small circle, pres-
tissimo, until I begged him to stop, where-
upon he looked very much surprised and
asked me if I had heart trouble. I assured
him that such was not the case, but that
we were not accustomed in America to
whirl about like tops.

Waltzes and old-fashioned polkas fol-
lowed in rapid succession. I can’t imagine
how Herr Leutnant ever managed to do
that one-two-three-hop, one-two-three-hop,
without falling over his sword. At mid-
night everybody, including Frau von Wald-
fel, danced the Franfaise , which is much
like our Virginia Reel. You should have
seen how the Baron and Baroness enjoyed
it, and how astonishingly light they were on
their feet ! They fairly glowed with pleas -
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ure, and reminded me of Mr. and Mrs. Fes-
siwig at the Christmas party.

I had looked forward to this affair with
considerable curiosity, not only because it
was to be my first glimpse of German social
life, but also because the Baroness had
invited Lieutenant Blum, the fiance of
Friiulein Hartmann. 1 must confess, how-
ever, that I was much disappointed in him.
He is short and dark, with a heavy, black
mustache which he constantly caresses with
his fat little hands. Although I did not
exchange a word with him the whole even-
ing, except the formalities of an introduc-
tion, I could not shake off the impression
that he was of much coarser fibre than
his betrothed. However, he paid her the
most devoted attention the entire evening,
and is, apparently, very much in love.

At one o’clock Mutterchen and I ex-
changed glances. I had a lesson at the
Conservatory the next morning at nine.
But at the first hint of our leaving, the Bar-
oness looked so distressed and surprised that
we were afraid we had been very rude and
5 [65]

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determined to do the proper thing. The
proper thing in this instance meant staying
up to dance till half-past four in the morn-
ing. Oh ! how sleepy I was as I crept into
bed and thanked my stars that the Namens-
Tagfete was over.

Evening.

By this time I am beginning to feel quite
like a native. My surroundings no longer
seem strange. I am growing accustomed to
five meals a day and the language sounds
fairly rational. My work has settled into a
regular routine. The entire mornings are
devoted to study. In the afternoons come
lessons. Twice a week I have a private
lesson with Thuille. At the Conservatory
I am studying singing with Frau Bianci and
piano with Friiulein Fischer, which makes
four lessons more. The piano lessons are in a
class with two other girls, and not as formid-
able as you might suppose, for I have ex-
plained to Fraulein Fischer that I am only
including piano to keep from forgetting what
I already know, and that I need most of my
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time on my composition lessons with Thuille.
She is very kind, and every two weeks we
are to read duets together. This makes six
lessons a week, and what writh the score-
reading class and the chorus, I see a busy
winter before me. The singing and piano
lessons are given in a large, imposing room.
It contains twro grand pianos and is fur-
nished in red velvet. I could hardly recon-
cile this with my ideas of a Conservatory,
but Frau Bianci explained that the building
was originally used for something quite dif-
ferent. Just fancy — we address all the
teachers by titles ! “ Herr Professor ” falls

now quite trippingly from my tongue, and
even “Frau Professor,” but “Fraulein Pro-
fessor ” is a little too much for me as yet !

I will acknowledge that I felt rather
strange at the first meeting of the score-
reading class, when, on entering the room
with the score of Haydn’s symphonies under
my arm, I encountered the astonished gaze
of thirty pairs of masculine eyes. You
could have heard a pin drop, the place was
so still, as I walked by the different groups
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and took a seat near the window. Then a
low whispering started among the students.
Evidently I had created a sensation. A
moment later the big door opened and
Stavenhagen came in. Every one rose, or
straightened himself up at once. With a
nod which seemed to include us all, the
director took his seat by the piano and the
lesson began. Each one was called on to
play a number of bars written in four dif-
ferent clefs, the old soprano, the tenor, the
alto, and the bass — Stavenhagen selecting
a new choral every time. It was not till
near the end of the hour that he called my
name. Just as 1 took my seat before the
keyboard, feeling intensely nervous and
fearing lest my fingers tremble visibly, I
heard one of the men smother a laugh.
That settled it ! I was bound to do or die,
and with a calmness quite unnatural I played
the bars set before me without a mistake.
Nobody laughed when I had finished, and
now that the first shock is over, the students
treat me with the utmost courtesy. Indeed,
they seem to have accepted me as inevitable,
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although occasionally I catch one of them
staring at me with an expression which says
as plainly as words, “ What on earth does a
woman want of score reading ? ”

The chorus is well under way. To-
day is Thursday, and while you have been
singing with the faithful in the Cecilia So-
ciety I, too, have been at a rehearsal, only we
call it a Probe here, and the atmosphere is
somewhat different from that of Pilgrim Hall.
The Oberster Chor (which means the upper
chorus) met at five o’clock to-day. The
room where we sit is on the top door and at
the end is an organ. I think the orchestra
class generally practises here. The air is
always frightfully close and hot, for there
are about two hundred of us and never a
window open. That is the German idea.
What a splendid thing a Fresh Air Fund
would be over here !

The piano against the wall is on a raised
platform about which the chorus forms a
half circle. Professor Becht, one of the
organ teachers, presides. Such a time as he
does have endeavoring to maintain order !

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But the moment we begin to sing — ah !
that is a different matter. Each pupil be-
comes utterly absorbed in the notes before
him, from the first measure to the last.
Each sings as though he loves to sing ; yes,
better than that, as though he actually feels
what he sings, which is more than can be
said of many vocalists who have won both
fame and fortune. There, you see, is an-
other side of these complex Germans. The
love of music is their birthright, the appre-
ciation of it intuitive.

How I wish you might see some of this
queer congregation ! The masculine ele-
ment ranges from small boys to bearded
men. The girls and men are kept strictly
separate, like the sheep and the goats. They
enter and go out by different doors, for the
building is divided in two distinct sections.
The sanctity of each section is kept as in-
violate as a Shaker settlement.

The front row of tenors in the chorus
amuses me exceedingly. It consists of boys
who wear their hair pompadour and yell out-
rageously. Did you ever notice the effect
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of a boy with pompadour hair opening his
mouth very wide ? It is truly startling.
The basses form a eurious vis-a-vis for these
youthful aspirants. Their age is in the neigh-
borhood of thirty. Obviously to be a bass
singer requires both dignity and experience.
Most of them think it also requires a full
beard. Several of the pupils affect the artis-
tic, or are dressed after the old masters, with
long hair, brown corduroy velvet jackets, and
flowing neckties. There is one I have
named Rubinstein, he looks so much like
the pictures of the great pianist. And the
most interesting tenor-boy I call Beethoven.
He wears a big white collar into which he
sinks his chin, and with deep, earnest eyes
under closely knit brows gazes gravely out
on a frivolous world.

I felt very much like the proverbial stray
cat as I entered the room at the first rehearsal,
alone and silent in all that crowd of chatter-
ing German girls. Not knowing where to
sit, I cast an anxious look around and caught
the friendly glance of a girl in the second
row. She beckoned to me somewhat shyly.

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“ There is a place here, if you care for it,”
she said.

Overjoyed to hear my mother tongue, I
gladly took the seat beside her, and we were
soon chatting in the unconventional way
known to strangers who meet on strange soil.
I could not but notice with what a high-bred
manner my new friend carried her head.
Her hair, black and curling, is coiled in a low
knot at the back of the whitest of necks, for
she wears her blouses cut out a little without
a collar, as is the strange and rather chilling
fashion here. I was struck, too, by her
jacket of black velvet, an odd school dress,
but one which seems to suit her perfectly.

“ You are English, are you not ?” I ques-
tioned.

“ Not at all,” said she, her blue eyes snap-
ping as much as blue eyes ever can snap.
“I’m Irish. I come from County Cork.”

“ Oh ! ” I said, drawing a long breath, as
visions of the representatives County Cork
generally sends to America flashed through
my mind.

“ I ’m taking piano as my Hauptsac/ie
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with Krause,” she went on. “You know
Stavenhagen and Krause have a great many
foreign pupils. By the bye,” she continued,
“ I have a friend myself in the United States.
I wonder if you know her — a Miss Curtis.”

“ Could n’t you tell me what city she lives
in ? ” I suggested. “ I know several people
of that name.”

“ Then I ’m sure you know her. How
delightful!” she replied, radiant. (I made
a mental note of the fact that jumping at
conclusions is a trait not confined exclu-
sively to American women.) “ She comes
from Los Angeles.”

For the twentieth time since my arrival
in Munich I explained the relative situation
of Boston and San Francisco, and politely
regretted that I could not know all the
music students as far as the Pacific coast.

I was surprised at first to see how much
deference is paid the professors here. When-
ever one enters the room we all immediately
rise and do not sit until he either goes out
or, by a gracious wave of the hand, accords
us permission to resume our places. In
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spite of my democratic birth, these marks of
respect impressed me as extremely fitting.
About every two weeks comes a “ Vortrags -
abend” an evening devoted to a concert by
the pupils. Stavenhagen has a large orches-
tra composed of the students, which he con-
ducts himself. We are marked, too, by
some occult system whereby our standing
is never known unless we “ flunk.”

Last week I had a very pleasant chat
with Professor Gluth. He is a well-known
composer here, has written several operas,
and teaches at the school. Margaret Ruth-
ven Lang had been kind enough to give me
a letter of introduction to him. He was
her teacher when she was in Munich. I
have been trying to see him for some time,
but have always missed him. He is a
splendid-looking man, very large, with white
hair, and his manner is most cordial. He
was delighted to hear of Miss Lang, and I
was proud to tell him of her success in the
musical world.

We have been to the opera twice since
I wrote, once to hear Die Weisse Dame
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and the second to hear “ Fidelio.” I am
afraid the report that the Prince Regent
was to be there had more to do with our
going than the desire to hear Die Wcissc
Dame itself, although it is a pretty opera
in its way. The audience was very splendid
and the royal box brilliantly lighted. The
most expensive places are in the first balcony,
and here we saw very fine costumes and
jewels. At ten minutes past seven — the
opera as a rule begins at seven — the or-
chestra struck up “ God save the King,” and
the people rose en masse as the Prince, ac-
companied by the Crown Princess and
several members of the royal family, entered
the box. The Regent at once came to the
front, and with one hand resting on the red
velvet railing, bowed repeatedly to right and
left. He is of medium height, with white
hair and flowing white beard. His eyes are
bright and kindly, and his bearing, while most
dignified, is utterly without ostentation. It
was an inspiring sight, — the five balconies,
the floor, and the boxes all alive with a crowd
of enthusiastic people, who, standing, faced
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this man who served them as king, and ap-
plauded till the house echoed with their cries
of “Hoch! Hoch!”

Although “ Fidelio,” which we heard on
W ednesday, presented no such gorgeous
spectacle, how much more we enjoyed that
evening ! Morena sang the title role, and
I feel as though I never want to see any one
else in the part. She is a tall, commanding
woman of great beauty, and the masculine
dress of Leonora suits her marvellously.
Her voice is exquisite, fresh, and true, and
her acting shows great intensity of power
and feeling. Bosetti, who, you remember,
sang so delightfully in Hansel und Gretel
made a charming Marzelline. When the
opera was over Mutterchen and I rose to go,
but to our surprise saw that the audience
remained seated. As we took our places
again, Zumpe raised his baton and the first
measures of that divine Leonore overture
number three rang out. I have never heard
anything more impressive, coming as it did
to form a finale to the opera itself. It
seemed as though the people held their
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breath during the performance ; not a rustle,
not a movement distracted one from the
glorious music of the orchestra. At the
close the whole house broke into wild ap-
plause and cries for “ Zurnpe ! Zumpe ! ”

I do think this German enthusiasm
splendid. We talk about the stolidity of
the Teutonic race, but I have never yet seen
here an unresponsive audience. If they
do not like a thing they remain silent. It
is the exception to hear any hissing, although
it now and then occurs. If they do like a
thing they applaud, and applaud lustily.
They resemble big, impulsive children, and
the man who said “ There is nothing for
preserving the body like having no heart”
would find no place among them. That
cherished enormity known as Modern
Indifference, by so many of us regarded as
the outward sign of culture, is, in Germany,
thank Heaven, conspicuous by its absence.

November 28.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. I
could hardly realize that you were feasting
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at home on turkey and cranberry sauce
amid all the festivities of the season. The
day here passed as usual with my morning
of study and a lesson with Thuille in the
afternoon. In the evening, that we might
not forget what day it was, the American
colony had a dinner and dance at one of
the large hotels. I had no idea before that
there were so many Americans in Munich.

Colonel W said there must be about

four hundred in all, and fully two hundred
and fifty came to the dinner. The rooms
were lavishly decorated with American flags
and flowers, as were also the tables. And
oh ! how pleasant was the sound of English
on every side. The consul’s wife and the
rectors wife received the guests under a red,
white, and blue bower, and at seven o’clock
we all went into the dining-room to the
strains of the “ Star Spangled Banner.”
The rector asked grace and then came the
dinner. That, dear Cecy, I must confess,
was but a farce when compared to the
genuine creation, in spite of the American
flag on the menu and the assurance that
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these were American turkeys especially
imported for the occasion. The cranberry
sauce, too, would, I believe, have been passed
by unrecognized on the other side, but any-
thing was preferable to dining on veal and
beer on Thanksgiving Day. After the
dinner came dancing — it had been thought
best to have no speeches — and it did seem
delightful to trip it in a sane way once more.
The whole affair was decidedly successful,
and made us realize that Thanksgiving was
a real institution even if we were on German
soil.

I must tell you how charming all the
people here made my birthday, which came
this week. In the morning M'utterchen
presented me with some lovely gifts tied
with a red, white, and blue ribbon. To our
surprise, about ten o ’clock came a knock on
my door, and in walked Karl bearing a huge
cake on a tray, the Baron and Baroness
following. They were all three beaming
with delight, and each shook my hand a
dozen times in their cordial way, wishing
me all sorts of good things. The cake had
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been ordered and made at the pastry cook’s
especially for me. It was round and bore
across the top, in letters of marvellous white
frosting script, “ Herzlichen Gruss” (Hearty
Greeting).

“ That must have the place of honor,” I
cried, much moved by their friendliness, as
I swept the books off the table. “It is
truly a wonderful cake.”

Hardly had they gone when a second
knock sounded, and in response to my
“ Herein ! ” in came the servants in a row,
headed by Georg, the butler. Twisting the
buttons of his livery, he made a little speech
very fast, all of which I could not understand,
but the burden of it was a wish that the
lieber Gott would keep gnadiges Frdulein
in health and happiness all her days. Then
he shook me warmly by the hand. The
maids followed, each wishing me good
fortune in some pretty couplet, and with
a quaint little courtesy also shaking my
hand. It was all done with such delightful
simplicity that I can never forget it.

But this was not all the kindness I re-

[80]

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ceived, for when we went out to dinner,
there on my phite was a beautiful basket of
white roses from my 4 4 friends in the pension .”
I did not know what to say in my sur-
prise, so I only exclaimed Danke Taus-
endmal (a thousand thanks), and sat down
quickly, lest I should cry or do some equally
foolish thing.

Just as we were leaving the room after
dinner Frau von Waldfel came up to me,
her niece by her side.

44 1 want to tell you, my dear, that I sent
to Nuremberg for some Lebkuchen in honor
of your birthday,” she said. 44 You will find
the package in your room. They tried to
persuade me in the shops,” she added, low-
ering her voice to a whisper, 44 that the
Lebkuchen they sell here are as good as the
genuine article, but I know better, and these
are the real Nuremberg ones, famous the
world over.”

I thanked her heartily for her thoughtful-
ness, assuring her that I had often read of
them in my fairy-tale books. Then they
both shook hands and Fraulein Hartmann,
6 [81]

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blushing slightly, leaned over and kissed
me.

“ It is the custom,” she said shyly, “ and
perhaps you will miss your American friends
less on this day if you realize you have made
new ones here.” Wasn’t it sweet of her ?

In the evening we celebrated by going to
the Populai~es Konzert — the Baron and
Baroness, Herr Doktor, Lieutenant Linder,
Miltterchen , and myself. It was held in the
Kaim Saal, where the Weingartner concerts
are given, and rendered by the same orchestra
under the leadership of Scharrer. In place
of the rows of seats were substituted tables
as at our 4 4 Pops ” at home. The hall was
extremely crowded when we entered and we
did not at first obtain a table where we
could sit together. Mutterchen and I took
places at one in the rear, and I noticed after
we had been seated a few moments the
disagreeable expression on the faces of the
strangers at the table. In fact, two of them
looked seriously offended and made some
remark to each other, sotto voce , with a
glance towards us. In bewilderment I
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wondered what could have destroyed their
equanimity, for they seemed placid enough
when we first came in. Suddenly it flashed
across me.

“ Don’t you remember,” I whispered to
Miitterchen , “ Editli told us the other day
it was the custom to bow to those sitting at
table whenever we took a seat with them ?
We didn’t do it, hence this atmosphere of
ungracious toleration.”

Miitterchen looked alarmed, but just then
the lieutenant came up to take us to a table
large enough for our whole party, and we
soothed the wounded feelings of those we
had so unconsciously offended by bestowing
the most cordial of bows as we went away.

This was not, however, our only unhappy
experience, born of ignorance and American
training, on that evening. It chanced, when
we reached home after the concert, that the
lieutenant turned to Miitterchen first to say
good night.

“A most enjoyable evening, gnadige
Frau” he said, bending low over her hand.
That he was to kiss it she had not the slight-

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est premonition. In point of fact he did n’t,
but he tried to, while Mutterchen inno-
cently raised her hand at the critical moment
and gave him a fearful rap under the nose.
His glasses flew off with a crash, and he
flushed very red, more from the blow than
embarrassment. It takes a great deal to
embarrass a German officer. While he
groped about on the floor in search of his
glasses, Mutterchen stammered forth a flood
of apologies in the best German the Berlitz
School affords. We were indeed relieved
when he recovered the glasses intact, and a
hearty laugh banished our distress, for the
Germans like a joke — provided it is not too
subtle — as well as the rest of us.

Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelungen is to
be given in two weeks, and we purchased our
seats to-day. I am all enthusiasm to hear it
and am reading the poems. I have a splen-
did little book which has the leading motifs
written out at the back and in the margins
of the pages a statement of just what motif
occurs at certain lines. It sounds complex,
— does n’t it ? — but is most interesting.

[84]

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Wish me joy, and in the meantime believe
me, as always,

M.

P. S. Fraulein Hartmann is not happy.
I am convinced of it. To be sure, I never
see her except at table, for her aunt keeps
her always closely by her side. But to-day
I passed the girl in the hall, and her eyes
were swollen from, crying. She looked so
sad that I stopped and asked her if I could
not do something for her. For a moment
she looked at me hesitatingly and seemed
about to speak, when in walked her unbear-
able aunt.

“ My niece has a frightful headache,” she
exclaimed, “and bed is the best place for
her.”

I feel sure that odious lieutenant has been
doing or not doing something that disturbs
her. I am constantly meeting him on the
stairs. He comes in every day to drink
afternoon coffee and is usually sauntering
down just as I come in from the chorus hour
at the Conservatory. When he sees me he
bows very low, and, with a twist of his tire-
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A n American Girl in Munich

some mustache and a glance which he
imagines is impressive, hopes “ sehr geelirtes
Fraulein is in good health.”

If it were n’t for his stunning uniform I
don’t believe the pretty Fraulein would look
at him twice !

[86]

Munich, December 8.

Dear Cecilia : —

in great gusts, which begin piano ,

HE WIND IS SHRIEKING

crescendo to fortissimo , and then die
away in weird, unearthly echoes, while the
rain keeps up a continuous counterpoint to
this minor music in sharp staccato against
the window panes. The mist is so thick
that the obelisk at the end of Max-Joseph-
strasse looks like a mere shadow. It is now
five o’clock and I have “ shut up shop,” as
it were, to talk with you, for my lesson for
to-morrow, a fugue in C minor, is finished.
It occurred to me, as I was writing it, how
curiously a fugue subject resembles certain
clever and unscrupulous people. Both are
thoroughly adaptable, both are capable of
saying the direct opposite of what they
have previously boldly stated, both are
difficult to deal with and can only be
managed successfully by employing the
greatest finesse.

[89]

An American Girl in Munich

Tuesday .

I was interrupted in my letter of yester-
day by Frau von W aldfel and her niece, who
came to call. Of course that meant a cup of
coffee. When they left I had to hurry down
to the school for a lesson, so writing was out
of the question. By the bye, I am afraid I
may have excited your sympathies unduly in
favor of Fraulein Hartmann, for ever since
that day I wrote you, when I met her cry-
ing in the hall, she has appeared most cheer-
ful. Yesterday she was in unusual spirits,
although to tell the truth her gayety struck
me as somewhat forced. It was as if she
were endeavoring to overcome the impres-
sion which her tears must have given me.

After my lesson with Thuille yesterday I
stopped in at Miss Pollard’s. She is a piano
student with whom I have become ac-
quainted, and goes by the nickname of
Polly. I found her sitting on a very low
stool before the piano and resting her fingers
on the keys, for all the world like a child too
little to reach up to play.

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“ What are you doing ? ” I said.

I’m practising,” she said, with crushing
dignity. Then, throwing me a supercilious
glance, “ This is an exercise especially rec-
ommended by Leschetizky.”

“ Oh ! ” said I meekly, inwardly wonder-
ing if there are any more sensitive creatures
on earth than we music students. How en-
thusiastically we rave over our “ method ” !
How more than ready we are to challenge
man, woman, or child who breathes a doubt
of its infallibility ! And oil ! with what
majestic disdain we utterly ignore the very
existence of any other ! Realizing all this,
I judged it wiser to change the subject by
asking quickly, —

“ Are the girls coming to-day ? ”

No sooner had I spoken than in came the
two New York girls of whom I wrote as
calling on me when I first arrived. We have
become firm friends by this time. Over a cup
of tea we four discussed the last Weingart-
ner concert, and more especially Alexander
Petschnikof. (I can never pronounce his
name without wanting to sneeze.) He
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had played the Mozart Concerto and Bach’s
Chiaconna most acceptably, to judge from hL
reception. Since none of us were violinists
we felt free to discuss his style and phras-
ing with all that intolerance which people
are wont to employ when criticising things
of which they themselves are ignorant.

Just as we were putting on our wraps
Polly made a confession.

“ Well, girls, I ’ll have to tell you the
truth,” she said. “ I ’ve been complained
of to the police.”

“ Again ? ” said Louise, in a startled
whisper.

“ Again ? ” Edith and I echoed, aghast.

“ And who is it this time ? ” demanded
Edith. She has a way of recovering and
getting at the root of things before any
one else. She did not ask why. We all
knew that there could be but one reason.
Polly, usually the essence of demureness,
turned and looked at us with hard, angry
eyes.

“ It ’s the Poet downstairs,’* she explained.
“ He says I ’m ruining his inspirations by
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my barbaric pounding. Fancy that reach-
ing Leschetizky’s ears ! He says I’m 4 at
it’ all day!”

44 Outrageous ! ” cried Louise.

44 Preposterous ! ” avowed Edith.

They were both following the laws of
Leschetizky.

44 1 ’m so sorry,” said I more mildly, for
somehow I could not help but see a picture
of the distressed poet, pacing the floor, and
beating his brow as he vainly sought for a
brilliant thought, while from above came
the unceasing, monotonous, nerve-destroy-
ing sound of a Czerny exercise repeated
over and over.

44 It ’s not the moving I mind,” continued
Polly, 44 1 ’m quite an adept at that, having
lived in three pensions since my arrival last
August.” Here she smiled bitterly. 44 But
at one thing I do rebel, and that is at hav-
ing to pay thirty marks for a damper for
my piano, which I ordered from Berlin in
the hope of appeasing him when he com-
plained a week ago ! ”

It was, indeed, an unhappy situation. W e
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all knew, too, that those thirty marks meant
a good deal to Polly.

“ Perhaps, after all, it will come out all
right,” said Louise consolingly.

“ I consider it an absolutely absurd pro-
ceeding ! ” said Edith emphatically, as she
stamped out into the hall.

“You might come down and talk with
the Poet’s Wife at our pension” I suggested.
We always said “ the Poet’s Wife,” since
we had long ago given up her five-syllable
name as hopeless. “I’m sure she would be
able to help you.”

You see Polly lives alone. We three
discussed the matter as we walked down the
Ludwig-strasse, the girls leaving me at the
Conservatory, where I had a piano lesson at
five.

And now I must stop, for it is time to
dress for the opera. To think of hearing
the “ Rheingold ” at last !

Saturday .

I have heard the “ Rheingold ” and “ The
Valkyrie,” and can hardly wait for “ Sieg-
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fried ” to-morrow night. Every seat in the
Hof-Theatre was occupied, and an immense
crowd stood downstairs. The price of seats,
increased three marks, seemed to make no
difference in the attendance. Polly and
two of her friends were too late to obtain
any desirable places, so they clubbed together
and engaged a Dienstmann to get their seats
for them. One finds a Dienstmann at every
turning here. They are forlorn, sad-eyed
creatures, in short, frayed jackets and red
caps, who linger on street corners gazing
abstractedly into space with their hands in
their pockets. For a small sum they will
run from one end of Munich to the other,
or, if need be, will stand in line for tickets
from four in the morning on. Polly has a
favorite old Dienstmann called Friedrich.
Accordingly, Friedrich was summoned to
the rescue and stood the entire night with
hundreds of others on the chilly stones of
Max-Joseph-Platz in order to get seats.
There is a rule that not more than three
tickets can be sold to one of these men.
The places in the gallery cost two marks
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(fifty cents) and the JDienstmann demands,
for standing all night, generally four marks.
It is divided among the trio, so they get
their places for about eighty cents. This
price is the exception, however ; ordinarily
one pays but thirty-five cents for a seat at
this altitude.

When it comes to sitting in the balcony
or orchestra one finds that the fabulous
stories which one hears in America about
the cheapness of opera are grossly exag-
gerated.

44 Why, opera costs nothing over there ! ”
you hear. 4 4 One can go for a song ! ”

As a matter of fact, the seats in the first
balcony generally cost two dollars, an orches-
tra seat a dollar and a half, and very often
these prices are considerably increased.

Is there anything more exquisite than the
first act of the 44 Rheingold,” more bewitch-
ing than those elusive daughters of the
Rhine, more perfect than the enchantment of
those rippling chords ? The whole scene is
a flawless poem. When it came to the
second act, however, my indomitable sense
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of humor rose to the surface. You have
heard that adage, have n’t you, “ Laugh
and the world laughs with you, weep and
you weep alone ” ? I have proven satisfac-
torily that the first part is a fallacy pure and
simple — at least in Germany. Was I at
fault because when I first heard the giant
motif I smiled ? Am I to be condemned
because I had to smother a laugh when
Mimi rolled over and over on the stage, and
shrieked forth a ridiculous 44 A ugh ! ” as in
a fit of indigestion ? And the giants were
such wild -looking creatures with grotesque
tufts of hair on the crown of their heads —
should I have taken them more seriously ?
Apparently, if I am to judge from the de-
meanor of the audience, who never changed
their expression during the entire opera.
And, after all, there are a good many people
at home who think to regard one bar of
Wagner without reverential seriousness is
sacrilege. Yet 44 to thine own self be true,”
Cecilia, and so I make no defence. What
need when I am writing to one who Under-
stands ?

7

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The spring motif of 4 4 The Valkyrie ” is
the incarnation of tenderness and eternal
freshness, and the climax of the whole opera
seems to me simply colossal. Briinnhilde,
sung by Senger-Bettaque, was convincing
and forceful. Her supposedly fiery steed, a
raw-boned black creature who looked suffi-
ciently mild for children to drive, was reluc-
tantly dragged in, licking sugar in a most
obvious fashion from the corners of his
mouth. Even a sturdy and belligerent
Briinnhilde, it seems, must at times yield to
puerile means in order to gain her point.
Later the war-maiden was seen scudding
through the sky on a snow-white charger, so
I judged she must have been fortunate
enough to exchange her apathetic beast
during the course of the opera. Fricka was
sung by Fraulein Fremstad, whose Carmen,
I hear, has made quite a furore. The whole
thing was splendidly given, and in the last act
I gleaned considerable knowledge about the
bass tuba which comes in here so often, just
as in the “ Rheingold ” I marked the growl-
ing themes for ’cello and double basses.

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Monday .

Well, it’s all over, that wonderful Ring!
“ Siegfried ” came on Thursday, and Knote,
whom I had previously heard as Tristan,
sang the title role. At the end of the first
act the audience fairly went wild with en-
thusiasm. Oh, that wonderful bit of orches-
tration where Mimi speaks of fear ! And
that perfect effect of the bird-voice in the
Waldweben , singing in the clarinet above
the strings, while the horn note, pianissimo ,
gives that poignant touch of color which
only the brain of a master could conceive.

The dragon, which Herr Martens tells me
is generally a small affair, was horrible and
immense enough for any one. I positively
trembled when he poured forth clouds of
steam from his gaping jaws, and disclosed a
throat of red fire. The bass tuba makes a
grand worm. I never realized what it was
to hear a worm crawl before. But in spite
of the wonders of the work, I wish it were
shorter. My head was frightfully tired en-
deavoring to follow the countless inter-
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woven themes. But then, this is my first
hearing of it all, and perhaps another time
I might change my opinion.

What a stupendous climax Gotterddm-
merung is to the whole Ring ! The prel-
ude is perfect, and I can imagine no more
dramatic moment than that when Siegfried
drinks to Briinnhilde in the fatal draught.
Never shall 1 forget the grandeur of the
music at the breaking of day, before the en-
trance of the hero, and the stirring sound
of those eight horns ; nor will that last
grand picture of Valhalla fade from my
mind for many moons.

It seemed as though half the American
colony had turned out for the Ring, for we
continually met people we knew at the in-
termissions. There is always a pause of
twenty minutes at some time between the
acts. Why, you inquire ? My dear Cecilia,
a German would never think of existing
two hours without refreshment, much less
four ; consequently there is n’t a theatre or
opera house in all Germany which does not
contain a restaurant. To be sure, it is
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rather a come-down to discover Professor
B , whom you saw a moment ago en-

thralled by the strains of the Waldweben ,
now prosaically munching a ham-sandwich
and drinking beer in a corner of the cafd, as
though his soul had never been stirred be-
yond the excitement of choosing what he
should order for dinner. But that is the
German temperament, and one soon gets
used to it.

There is the “ Siegfried ” bird-call running
through my head again ! Is it that which
the fountain — my fountain, as I claim it
now — sang to me as I passed to-day ? Or
did I myself unconsciously hum the melody
and hear in the ripple of the falling water
the soft rhythm of accompanying ’cellos and
violins ?

December 15.

Christmas is in the air, and every street-
corner has bloomed into a miniature forest
of trees. These are fastened in squares of
wood, and stand up straight and proud. As
a rule some strange, bent old woman pre-
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sides over them, and out of curiosity to-day
I stopped in Odeons-Platz and inquired the
price of a particularly plump little tree.

“ One mark fifty ” (thirty-seven and a half
cents), quavered the dame, “ but they run up
as high as fifteen marks.”

The poor soul looked so disappointed as
I, after thanking her, turned away, that I
simply could not resist going back — least of
all at Christmas time. There was nothing
to buy but trees, so I picked out the plump
little one which had first attracted my atten-
tion. She wa^ delighted and beamed at me
as I started off with it dragging behind me
from under my arm, for my hands were full
of music books. I had not the slightest idea
what to do with my new possession. I had
just made up my mind to leave it at some
one’s door, when who should come trudging
along through the snow but the Hausmeis-
ter’s little boy. He was on his way home
from school, with his books strapped to his
back in one of these curious black knapsacks
which all the school children carry. I thrust
the tree into his arms, with the assurance
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that it was for him, and left him, wholly be-
wildered, hugging it tightly to his breast.

When I reached the corner I turned to
see him still standing there and gazing after
me from between the branches with an ex-
pression of astonishment and delight. I
waved my hand, and at last he moved and
gave a sign with his red mitten. Then he
turned and ran towards home as fast as his
fat legs could carry him.

The shops, with one exception, are not
nearly as finely decorated as ours at home.
This exception is the sausage-store, which is
a thing of beauty and a joy forever. To be
frank, a sausage had never impressed me as
a particularly artistic creation, nor had I
been wont to regard it as a species of deco-
ration until Germany unfolded to me its
many possibilities. Could you but see one
of these windows, hung with long ropes, the
links of which are large Frankfurters joined
together by a band of green, you would
not fail, I am sure, to admire the intricacy
of the designs and the striking originality
with which the small sausages are inter-
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spersed with the larger ones so as to produce
the most surprising effects ! Who ever as-
sociated sausages with anything so idyllic as
a waterfall ? Yet here you have a wooden
mill, high up on an improvised hill, and over
the wheel flow down streamers of sausages
to mass in a lake below. Who ever thought
of connecting them with the legends of the
Middle Ages ? Yet Herr Schmidt, at the
corner, has constructed the most marvel-
lous tower out of sausages laid crisscross,
with openings for little windows, with a
turret on the very top, with a flag wav-
ing proudly on the highest peak, and most
wonderful of all, with a drawbridge securely
fastened over a moat of parsley.

Everybody gives every one else some little
remembrance for Christmas, and we are rack-
ing our brains to think of things appropriate
for those at the pension. The clerks in the
shops help one out all they can. You have
no idea how courteous they are. Always
on entering they say 44 Good day ” and the
proprietor comes up with 44 How can I serve
you, gnadigcs Fraulcin ? ” Then they will
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pull down all the goods in the store, bring
out hidden boxes from under the counters,
and even send outside for something they
have not got, remaining perfectly satisfied
if you only purchase something. If you buy
nothing, however politely you may regret
that the silk does not match, or the lace
bear the required pattern, they plainly show
their displeasure in their faces.

We are always politely escorted to the
door by a clerk, who bids us good by.
Often in the smaller stores it is amusing
to hear the chorus of farewells which fol-
low us. Last week Polly and I had coffee
at one of these fascinating Conditorei , or
little bake-shops which one finds here every-
where. For an absurdly small sum we had
a table to ourselves, coffee enough for a
dozen, and the most delicious cakes you
ever ate ! When we had finished, I started
to leave some Trinkgeld for the waitress,
who had served everything in the daintiest
fashion.

“ Fifty pfennigs ! ” said Polly, looking at
the coin that I had laid on the table.

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“ I felt I ought to give more, but they
told me ” I began.

“ More ! ” exclaimed Polly. “ I never
heard of such a thing ! Don’t you know
that ten pfennigs (two cents and a half) for
each person is considered quite sufficient ? ”

Polly has lived here longer than I, and
has absorbed the idea that a pfennig — a
fifth of a cent — is a pfennig, and not to be
lightly treated. Accordingly I laid the
sum on the table. The waitress swept the
money into the black leather bag which she
wore about her waist just as Kathie does in
Alt- Heidelberg, and expressed her thanks
repeatedly as she opened the door for us
to pass out.

“ JBitte, verehren uns wieder /” (Please
honor us again) said the proprietor from her
desk.

66 Adieu, meine JDamen,” cried the waitress
at the table in the corner, while our little
maid poured forth a continual sing song of
“ Danke sehr, meine Damen . Besten Dank /
Habe die Ehre ! ” (I have the honor) until
we were out on the street.

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Polly and I looked at each other and
laughed.

“ Don’t fancy it was the effect of the tip,”
said she. 6 They go through the same pro-
gram for half the money. I always give ten
pfennigs and have never missed a word.”

She laughed again gaily, for she is once
more quite happy inasmuch as the “ poet
on the floor below ” has been suddenly
called to Stuttgart. A drama of his has
been accepted there, and he was so over-
come with joy that he withdrew his com-
plaint and told Polly she might “ bang
away” till he returned.

“ And now come down to the Schliissel
Bazar with me,” she said, tucking my hand
coaxingly under her arm. “ I want you to
help me select a gift.”

There is no more fascinating place for a
Christmas shopper than the Bazar, but I
glanced at the clock on the Theatiner church.

“ I really can’t, Polly,” I said ; “ there is
a chorus rehearsal at five, the last before the
concert, and I must hurry along this minute
or I shall be late.”

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So we parted, and I wended my way
quickly through the fast-gathering dusk,
past the Feldernhalle, which never looks
more imposing than when half concealed
in the mystery of shadows, across the busy
Platz, now twinkling with countless lights,
by the statue of Lewis the First, and in at
the door of the old Conservatory itself.

December 18.

To-day came the Probe in the big hall for
the concert next week. The regular Con-
servatory chorus has been enlarged by a
number of new voices, some of which are
shrill enough to pierce through the dome
itself. I came home utterly exhausted, for
we were kept singing and standing three
hours, and never in the annals of conducting
was there a more wretched rehearsal. For
the first time I saw a new side of Stavenha-
gen ; he literally raged, but instead of making
himself ridiculous he was positively majestic.
To be sure, he got very red in the face, and
his blond, curly hair, through which he
despairingly thrust his hands, was much
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awry, but he stamped about on his bit of
platform so ferociously, shook his baton so
threateningly, and shouted his commands in
such sonorous German that I trembled in
my American shoes.

W e sang first Liszt’s “ Excelsior.” Why
is it that the most shrinking, retiring, and
timid-appearing member of an orchestra is
always the one to play the instruments of
percussion ? One can easily imagine a stout,
muscular creature presiding at the kettle-
drums, but when we come to look for him
we discover him at the end of the line of
flutists, playing the piccolo. The eternal law
of opposites is, T suppose, as applicable here
as elsewhere. An unusually meek man was
to manage the bells which play such an im-
portant part in this work, and he continu-
ally came in half a beat late. Stavenhagen
glared at him darkly, tried him several times,
and then gave it up as hopeless. The chorus
attacks were frightful, and each part sang at
its own sweet will.

The Brahms Requiem began more auspi-
ciously, and as the beautiful first movement,
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which we really sang well, went on, the
director’s tense expression softened, and he
relaxed into his usual easy beat, hand on hip.
At the close, where the sopranos end with
the pianissimo phrase, “ selig sind ” (blessed),
and the tenors come in yet fainter after
them, and the whole thing dies away as
might the distant notes of a celestial choir,
we were gratified to hear him murmur “ Sehr
sclion!” He praised us, too, for the second
movement. Is n’t it magnificent when the
whole chorus sing in unison that grand, broad
theme, “ Dcnn alles Fleisch ist wie Gras ”
(Behold all flesh is as grass) ? And then
the tender melody, “ So seid nur geduldig ”
(Therefore be patient), which follows ! It
nearly swept me off my feet. Let critics
say what they will, I love the work, and
think perhaps, after all, Mr. Huneker is
right in saying that Brahms is the first
composer since Beethoven to sound the
note of the sublime.

We were just congratulating ourselves
on getting through very creditably, when
alas ! we stumbled upon the pitfalls and
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snares of that most difficult of fugues, “ Dcr
Gerecliten Seelen ” (The righteous souls).
There is a bit of it where the tempo is amaz-
ingly tricky, and T remember no place, even
in Bach’s B minor Mass, so difficult to sing
well. The girl beside me, who had a high,
shrill voice, insisted on coming in a measure
too soon, and this repeated mistake set our
director’s nerves on edge.

“ Die Erste Sopran ! Die Erste Sopran ! ”
(The first soprano !) he cried' shaking his
baton at our corner. Over and over we
sang the same bars, but never once perfectly.
Finally he threw down his stick, and with a
desperate 66 A eh, Gott /” put his hands over
his ears.

The chord broke off abruptly. The
orchestra, plainly very bored, carelessly
examined their instruments. The other
members of the chorus looked at us re-
proachfully. W e looked anywhere we
dared. The first sopranos were in disgrace.

After what seemed an interminable silence,
in reality about half a minute, Stavenhagen
picked up his baton and said calmly, sternly,
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his voice cutting the stillness, “ We will
go on.”

Well, we got through somehow, but it
was after eight o’clock when I ran down
the snowy street back to the pension. The
family were at supper and the anxious face
of Mutterclien looked relieved as I opened
the door.

“ W e thought you were lost, is n’t it ? ”
said the Herr Doktor, in what he considered
unimpeachable English.

Fraulein Hartmann, looking charming in
a light-blue gown which she had donned in
honor of Lieutenant Blum, her aunt’s guest
that evening, jumped up and ran to meet
me.

“ I ’m so glad you are here safe,” said she.
To her the idea of a girl being out alone
after six o’clock was almost inconceivable.

“ I myself was on the point of going in
search of gnadiges Fraulein ,” said Lieu-
tenant Blum, with a low bow, much rattling
of sword, and that sneering smile which even
his great black mustache fails to conceal.
That was indeed kind of you, Herr
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Lcutnant ,” I replied as sweetly as possible.
“You really didn’t think me lost, or kid-
napped, or perchance murdered in cold blood,
did you ? ” I added to M Utter chen, as I took
my seat.

“ I might have thought even such frightful
things as those, had not our friend opposite
insisted that you had been detained and that
there was no need of ‘ putting up my um-
brella till it rained,’ ” she answered.

I looked gratefully across the table at the
Poet’s Wife, who smiled understanding^
back. Hers is one of those sunny, unselfish
natures which, “ when they have passed the
door of Darkness through,” leave the world
a better place than they found it.

The serenity of perfect poise is such an
enviable thing to possess ! Alas, that it is
so seldom found in people of a musical tem-
perament ! I can hardly imagine a placid
Tsehaikowsky or an unruffled Dvorak, can
you?

8

[113]

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Christmas Day.

Andante.

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht !

Alles schlaft, einsamwacht,

Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,

Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh\

Can you see us as we stood on Christmas
Eve in the quaint dining-room singing to-
gether the old carol which has rung
throughout Germany on this night for cen-
turies gone by ? We formed a strange con-
gregation — all wanderers from different
parts of the globe, for once united by the
Christmas spirit. There were eleven of us
in all, — the Baron and Baroness with Karl
between them, their rosy, good-natured
faces sober and reverential ; Herr Doktor,
standing near, his critical expression soft-
ened as, under the spell of the song, his
thoughts turn to his Paris hearthstone ;
Frau von Waldfel, forgetting, in the mean-
ing of the hour, to wonder what sort of
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goodies we were to have for dinner ; Frau-
lein Hartmann, lost in a dream, at her side ;
the Poet and his sweet-faced wife, holding
each other by the hand as they joined
firmly in the refrain ; Herr Martens, aban-
doning his student airs to add a tenor, and
last — but best of all — Mutterchen. I sat
at the piano to play the accompaniments,
where I could see not only them, but catch
a glimpse of the servants who stood to-
gether outside in the hall. They were all
arrayed in their best. Georg, especially
gorgeous in the splendor of a new livery
with fully six dozen brass buttons, stood in
the front row. Next him was the cook,
resting her hand on the head of her little
girl, who had been granted leave from the
convent to attend this gala occasion. The
other servants crowded together behind
them. For this one evening in the year
caste was forgotten, and the Baroness’s
strong soprano joined with the alto of her
maid as they led the rest in the hymn each
had sung from childhood.

All went well till we reached the second
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verse. Then 1 heard Herr Martens voice
tremble, then break, then cease altogether.
Poor fellow ! his family is scattered over
two continents, and for him the word
Home is associated only with a sense of
forlornness and loss. Gretchen, our own
little maid, but a year away from the Bava-
rian Highlands, hid her face on Therese’s
shoulder. I looked at Miittcrchen bravely
singing, but I knew in my heart that she
was thinking of Home. The picture of
those around the table across the sea flashed
across me and I felt an odd tightening at
my throat.

It was only for a moment — this shadow
of sadness on us all. Then it suddenly van-
ished, for at the last note the Baron flung
open the double doors of the salon and ah !
what a bewildering, fascinating, wonderful
tree was revealed ! Karl and I exchanged
glances with satisfied smiles. We were
proud of our work. The hours of labor in
the morning spent in tying on the vari-
colored balls, in hanging the tinsel favors, in
arranging the silver shower had not been in
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vain. It was indeed a marvellous shower,
delicate, fairy-like, falling from the very top-
most bough, where stood the figure of the
Christ-child with outstretched hands as if to
bless those below.

For a moment we were breathless with
admiration. Then “ All for the presents
together,” shrieked Karl in glee, “ Eins , zwei,
drei ! ” and in we went.

Along the sides of the room ran tables
covered with a white cloth and trimmed
with evergreen. On these the gifts were
laid, not done into parcels, but tastefully
arranged. Each person had his own partic-
ular group, and over it hung a bough of
green and a basket of cakes and candy. In
one comer was a large table for the servants.
Mutterclien and I could not help smiling to
hear the flood of joyous exclamations on
every side as we examined our presents.
The German language seems to have an
endless supply of adjectives expressive of de-
light. There are thousands of them, ranging
from the sonorous grossartig , with the pro-
longed rolling of the rs, to that overwhelm-
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ing one which has such a wealth of emphasis
on the last syllable, kol-os-sal! When they
are all, as it were, turned on together, the
effect is torrential !

After we had looked at our gifts and ad-
mired those of every one else, and the ser-
vants, beaming with happiness, had shaken
hands and expressed their thanks, we went
into the dining-room. Of course there was
a Bowie and we drank, standing, a toast to
“ Merry Christmas.” Then we played a lot
of games, which although childish afforded
us much amusement. Lieutenant Blum,
with mustache more marvellously twisted
than ever, came in and joined us, and later
Edith and Louise with a lieutenant of the
Second Regiment appeared. Just before
twelve we all set off for St. Michael’s to
attend the midnight mass.

The great cathedral was crowded when
we entered, and we could only find places in
the chancel on the left of the altar. Thus
we had a good view down into the church
itself, and by the flickering light on the pil-
lars dimly discerned the vast crowd kneeling
[H8]

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in the pews, blocking the aisles, and occu-
pying every portion of available space. Be-
yond them and above hovered mysterious
shadows. It was almost oppressively silent.
Only the footsteps of those entering broke
the intense stillness. The sound, dying
away in weird echoes high up beneath the
vaulted roof, made the silence which fol-
lowed more absolute.

Suddenly the big bell on the Frauenkirche
began to toll in wonderful, mighty throbs.
At the same moment, from above among
the shadows, floated down the sound of
music — exquisite strains of Palestrina.
The door on our left opened and a long line
of priests entered, clad in magnificent robes
of white and gold. We all fell on our
knees in the semi-darkness, our eyes turned
towards the high altar, which alone gleamed
like a gorgeous jewel beneath the rays of
a hundred tapers. The impressive service
began.

Through hazy clouds of incense I gazed
down on the kneeling, worshipping crowd,
kneeling and worshipping just as thousands
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of other throngs were doing at that very
hour, here in far-off Germany, in France, in
Italy, and across the sea. The marvellous,
beautiful meaning of it all stirred me. My
mind turned back through the ages to that
night in the dusky stable of Bethlehem.
Surely it is the wonder of all wonders that
one Life — one brief, mortal Life, lived
among millions of other lives — now after
the passing of centuries stands out as the
sole link uniting all Christendom.

Lost in the beauty of the service with its
lights and incense and music and gold-decked
priests, it was with a start that I awakened
as it were from a spell when the music
ceased, and the priests had filed out through
the arched door. The cathedral felt sud-
denly damp and chill, and shivering, I pulled
my cloak around me.

“ I did n’t care for the organist’s selection at
all,” said Polly critically, as we turned to go.

“We must walk as quickly as possible or
we shall all be ill for a week with colds from
sitting so long in this damp church,” added
Edith in her emphatic way.

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But the Poet’s Wife said nothing. She
only looked at me with her deep, unfathom-
able eyes, and pressed my hand gently.
Sometimes she reminds me of you, Cecilia.
She is one of the few in the great world
who Understand.

[121]

HE HAPPIEST OF NEW

Years to you, Cecilia ! Have you

ever been among the mountains in
winter ? Have you ever run away on a
holiday to a quaint little town nestling in
the valley, and wandering through narrow
streets and climbing up snowy roads for-
gotten that such tilings as canons or double
counterpoint exist ? If not, Cecy mia , get
out your hood and fur coat and start ! But
before you go, let me tell you that I have a
deep-rooted conviction : namely, that you
can find no more entrancing spot on the
globe than Meran. For Meran, you must
know, lies exclusively apart from the rest of
the world, deep down in the valley of the
Adige and jealously guarded on every side by
high mountains, like a jewel in a casket. The
mountains themselves, covered with snow
from base to summit, are so magnificent and
stirring that I call them Wagner mountains.
And oh ! the sunset on their frosty peaks,

Meran, January 1 , 1903.

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when all the white is changed to rose — it
beggars description.

We left Mimchen on Christmas Day —
just after my writing you. All the pension-
naires and servants came to the carriage and
bade us good by with much hand-shaking
and expressing every possible good wish for a
pleasant journey, just as if we were to be
gone a year instead of ten days. Can you
imagine spending Christmas riding through
the Brenner Pass ? Let me tell you, too,
there never can be anything more marvel-
lous than this same Brenner Pass in winter.
There has been a heavy storm for some days
and it left the whole country half buried
in a white cloak. Snow, snow everywhere,
covering every mountain, stretch of valley,
and hill ! It is a grand sight. We were so
enchanted with the scenery that we forgot
to mourn the lack of holiday festivities.
Then, too, we did have one important fea-
ture of the season, for it only needed a
glance out of the windows to discover a
Christmas tree. Indeed we were in the
midst of a whole forest of them, only in
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place of tinsel and spangles we had the
lovelier decoration of pure snow, and instead
of brilliantly colored favors, from every
branch hung pendants of flashing ice, which,
like finely cut gems, reflected the sunlight
in flashes of all the colors of the rainbow.

On the train who should chance to be in

the next compartment but Miss B from

California, one of the students at the Con-
servatory. We had a delightful chat over
music. She is studying with Krause, and
told me quite a little about him. She says he
is very erratic in his teaching and never gives
a lesson twice alike. Sometimes he paces
up and down the room while the pupil is
playing. Often he gazes abstractedly out
of the window for fully a quarter of an hour,
saying nothing. Again, he stands with his
back to the stove, hands behind him, appar-
ently listening ; then suddenly darts out of
the room and does not return for twenty
minutes.

“ When he teaches Beethoven it is a dif-
ferent story,” she went on. “ He likes to
do that better than anything. He draws
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up a chair and sits close beside the pupil,
following every note. The slightest mistake
is not overlooked. It’s a fearful ordeal ! ”
We changed cars at Bozen, for only a
single branch road, winding through the
picturesque valley of the Adige, connects
Meran with civilization. On our arrival we
found the heartiest of welcomes from our

friends the S s who were at the station.

We drove at once to their home, which is
called 44 Villa Pomona,” and is situated on
the hill overlooking the town. The servants
greeted us at the gate, and the dogs came
bounding out with enraptured barks. Turn-
ing into the path leading to the house I
had my first good look at the villa. It is
square, and constructed of yellowish stone.
Between the windows are frescoes represent-
ing the goddess of plenty, the graces, etc.
A terrace runs around it. It reminds one,
in a way, of the Pompeian houses. Inside,
it is no less charming, and oh ! so de-
lightfully American in its furnishings and
arrangement ! The only discord in the
harmony are the German porcelain stoves,
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but one can’t have everything and live in
the heart of the Austrian Tyrol too.

We breakfast in the loveliest room up-
stairs. The windows command such an
inspiring view that one almost forgets to
eat. Below lies the valley itself with
its one church spire and its mass of
quaint, low yellow buildings huddled to-
gether ; on the heights at the right rises an
old, crumbling tower, the remnant of a once
splendid castle ; on the left stretches out
the valley, and far away there in the dis-
tance, so far that the blue of the sky be-
comes misty, one sees the first spurs of the
Dolomites which guard the gateway into
Italy. On every side rise these majestic
mountains of snow, whose peaks look as if
cut out by a giant knife, and laid against
the background of an intensely blue sky.

When we have finished breakfast we
generally take a walk to town. Our ob-
jective point is the post-office, but we would
accept almost any pretext to wander down
the hill and join the crowd strolling in the
sunshine on the Gisela Promenade. The
[129]

9

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Promenade lies across the river, for an im-
petuous little stream cuts the village into
two sections. Accordingly, at the foot of
the hill we cross the most picturesque of
stone bridges and find ourselves at once on
the broad walk, which, lined with fine old
poplars, runs straight along the bank of
the river. At eleven o’clock the walk is
crowded. Meran is not only a fashionable
resort in winter, but a favorite spot for
invalids on account of the perfection of its
climate. One sees them always on the
Promenade at this time, walking slowly up
and down, leaning back in wheel chairs,
listening to the music of an excellent
Capelle , as they call the orchestra, which
plays here daily. If the weather happens
to be cold, which is seldom the case, the
music can be enjoyed in the luxurious Cur-
haus especially built for the purpose.

It was just by the band-stand, in the
delightful sunshine of our second morning
here, that I had the pleasure of meeting
Carl Zerrahn. You remember the time
when he was such a prominent conductor and
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musician in Boston, do you not ? We had
sat down to rest and hear the music when

Mr. S pointed to the tall, commanding

figure of an elderly man slowly approaching.

“ Here comes Zerrahn,” he said ; “ he is,
alas, almost blind now, and cannot recognize
any one except at close range.”

A thrill of sadness swept over me, as I
recalled him as the first conductor I ever
saw, standing on the stage at the old Music
Hall and sweeping the Handel and Haydn
Society along in those great choruses of the
“Messiah” and “Elijah.” His hair is now
snow white, and his walk feeble, but he
stands as proudly erect as when he wielded
the baton in the height of his success.

He did not perceive us approaching,
although the members of the Capelle , who
all knew him, watched us curiously. When
we were within a few feet of him, we intro-
duced ourselves as old friends whom he had,
perhaps, by this time forgotten. It was
charming to see his frank delight in meet-
ing us again and in learning news of Boston,
which he loves very dearly.

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“ I am staying with my son here,” he said,
“ but I feel that Boston is my home, and I
shall go back there in a year or so. I
worked and lived and grew in Boston. It
is to me what no other city is.”

He asked about the Handel and Haydn
Society, inquired about my musical studies
and the Munich opera, and was so thoroughly
kindly and interested in everything pertain-
ing to his art that I could not but think of
Victor Hugo’s lines, 44 There are no wrinkles
on the heart.”

In the afternoon we go driving over some
of these countless roads about Meran. It is
like travelling through a magnificent picture
gallery. The other day we went shopping.
You never saw anything so fascinating as
the stores. The principal ones are in the
“ Lauben ,” the quaintest of streets, whose
sidewalks are built under arcades. When
we enter, the girl in attendance always says
“ Kuss* die Hand” The first time I heard
this I frankly put out my hand to be kissed.
A laugh from them all made me blushingly
draw it back again. I learned that even
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rTTTYrrrrrrrrrTTirriTTXirrrrszxrxrrixirzixzxzrzxrrizrrTXTrrrTTTTTiTTTTTTTT-rri

here in this cool sequestered vale of the
Adige people do not say what they mean.
It seems the proper thing to murmur “Kuss
die Hand” but no one but a servant would
ever think of actually doing it. It is a sort
of 4 4 take the will for the deed ” arrangement.

The prettiest thing happened here this New
Year’s morning. We were all sitting in Mr.

S ’s study hearing the latest American

paper (two weeks old) read aloud, when there
came a rap at the door. A moment later
the gardener, his wife, and two little girls
entered, dressed in their holiday clothes.
They all bowed solemnly. Then the parents
withdrew to the background, the father
nervously turning his cap around in his brown
hands, while his wife, in true German fashion,
held the bundle, a huge thing clumsily done
up in white paper. The older of the two
little girls, who could not have been more
than five, shyly advanced. In a high, ex-
cited voice she recited a little poem about
the New Year. Her sister, no less thrilled by
the occasion, recited very rapidly two more
verses about Freude (joy) and Gluck (hap-
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piness). As a finale they together took the
bundle and with the prettiest of courtesies

handed it to Herr and Frau von S ,

“with best wishes for a happy New Year
and many thanks for their kindness.” The

S s were much pleased and touched

by this charming simplicity. The package
proved to be a beautiful plant of azaleas, and
the whole quartet were radiant with delight
as we passed the gift among us and praised its
beauty. They went away with many bows,

looking, oh ! so happy, and Mrs. S

ordered an extra supply of beer for them
in the kitchen.

That reminds me of a curious custom here.
Did I tell you that a servant is engaged at so

much a week with beer ? 1 Mrs. S says

the maids make a dreadful uproar if their
beer is not forthcoming, and the cook insists
on several bottles a day. I should think this
might be detrimental to the cooking, but

Air. S assures me that it has quite the

contrary effect, and the more beer she
drinks the better she cooks.

1 Also an English custom.

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This afternoon we took a long drive, re-
turning through the town, so I had a fine
chance to see the peasants in gala array.
Near a wayside shrine (one finds them every-
where here) we came upon a crowd of young
peasants sitting on the stone wall, or leaning
lazily against it smoking meerschaum pipes.
The splendor of their costumes was quite
startling. Their funny little round hats,
usually severely plain, were coquettishly
decorated with bunches of yellow flowers
fastened on the brim at the back. Their
coats and trousers were of corduroy. Most
noticeable of all were their waistcoats of
scarlet or bright green.

“ They seem to have very pronounced
tastes,” I remarked. “ Is n’t it odd that some
of them choose red and the others choose
green, as if they belonged to a college team ? ”

“ There is method in their madness,”

answered Mr. S laughingly. “ A much

more serious matter than a question of taste
is at stake. Let me inform you immediately,
my dear young lady, that those whom you
see before you in red waistcoats are married
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men, while those in green are bachelors and
in the market, so to speak. It strikes me
as not a half-bad idea. Surely a girl can’t
innocently fall in love with the wrong man
here.”

“ Unless she is color-blind,” I added.

It is time for supper, and as Mrs. S

has promised us a real American meal I don’t
want to risk being a second behindhand.
No one can realize what that means — a real
American meal — unless one has been living
for four months on a German pension diet.
Why, after so many foreign menus, I feel
like the poor soul who “near a thousand
tables pined and wanted food.” Yesterday
we actually had muffins for breakfast.
Think of that when one is living in a
country where the mere hint of hot bread
or ice water calls forth the remark, “I do
not see why all you Americans don’t die of
indigestion.”

I can’t get it out of my head that the
officer I met on the Promenade this morning
was Lieutenant Blum. He passed by with
a number of other officers and several

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showily dressed women, all talking and
laughing loudly. It is quite possible that
he might have come down here on leave,
but hardly probable under the circumstances.
I did not get a full look at his face. It was
the swaggering walk and the little fat hand
raised to salute a brother officer that made
me start and look again. By that time he
had almost passed. Nonsense ! Probably
this very minute he is at the pension ac-
cepting a cup of tea from Fraulein Hart-
mann’s slender hands, while Frau von
W aldfel from behind the urn regards him
with admiring glances, for of course the
Fraulein is not allowed to see him alone.
That would be a frightful breach of etiquette.
W ell, I will let you know when I return.
For her sake, I rather hope I was mistaken.

Innsbruck, January 3 .

Yesterday we regretfully left Meran, but
the memory of our delightful stay there
will long haunt us, and we are living in
hopes of another visit to this earthly par-
adise. We reached Innsbruck at three
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txxxxrxxxxxixxxTxziiiixiziixxizxxxxixTYxrmixxxiixxxzxiixizixxirixxirimir:

o’clock, and by four found ourselves here,
in this most fascinating of houses — for,
Cecilia, we are actually living, eating, sleeping
in a castle, a real, bona fide castle, once the
hunting lodge of the Emperor Maximilian.
I see you start and your eyes glow. “ A
fig for music ! ” you say ; “ Let me live in
your castle.” Yes, you who so revel in
medievalism, to whom the glimpse of faded
tapestries and dulled armor is as so much
wine, would surely be in your element here.

How this former resort of knights and
retainers sank to the materialistic, twentieth-
century level of a pension I have not yet
learned, nor cared to. All I know is that
the grand old dining-room, hung with
ancient portraits of the royal house, still
remains ; that the carved balconies with
their worn railings overlooking the rushing
stream of the Inn, the narrow winding
corridors, the high diamond-paned windows,
the picturesque terrace, the goblets, beakers,
and trophies of the hunt are yet here —
decaying relics of a brilliant past.

This morning I discovered the crowning
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feature beneath this most enchanting of
roof-trees. Leaving Mutterclien to toast
her feet by the fire, I went in search of a
book in the library. In the many twistings
and turnings of the corridors I lost my way.
At length I found myself at the top of a
short flight of steps, and thinking this was
only another way to the library, I walked
down them and along the hall. A worn
door was at the end. I pushed it open and
entered. For a moment the darkness of the
place blinded me, coming as I had from the
brightness of the outer house. Then I saw
more clearly there were people, yes, actual,
live people, kneeling on the stones and
telling their beads within touch of my hand.
No one noticed me as I stood by the door.
As I looked about me I saw that I was in
a chapel all of stone. Before me was an
altar decorated garishly with paper flowers.
The light of the sacrament burned dimly
above, and cast a shadow on the rough
crucifix hanging near. A few rays of sun-
light sifting in through the high window
at the farther end of the room sent a
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shattered shaft across the heads of the
peasants, who, absorbed in prayer, made no
movement save to slip their beads along
their rosaries. The suddenness of the change,
the sense of awe in coming upon this one
room, this one place set aside as a shrine in
the very midst of a busy household, was
startling. I felt myself an intruder, and
noiselessly slipped away.

Upon inquiry at luncheon I discovered
that it is the regular custom on fete days
for the people of the village to climb up the
hill and attend mass where the ruler of their
fathers was wont to worship. On a second
visit I discovered that on the right, just
after entering the chapel, is a tiny square
room which at a first glance looks like a
cell. In the rough stones of the wall a
square hole is cut, and beneath it is a bench
to kneel upon. This place was the private
oratory of the Emperor, and here he used
to attend mass, receiving the sacrament
through the orifice in the stones.

Can you imagine anything more fascinat-
ing than living in a house where every nook
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and corner is alive with memories of the
past ? I could stay here for weeks, but
vacation is over and we leave for Munich
to-morrow.

January 11.

Here we are again in old Miinchen !
Every one in the pension expressed him or
herself as delighted to see us back, with all
that cordiality which is one of the most
charming characteristics of the German
nature.

I began again my lessons with Thuille on
Wednesday. I had sent him at Christmas
a little remembrance, as is the custom here.
Naturally I expected he would thank me,
but I was hardly prepared for what fol-
lowed. As at his “ Herein ! ” I entered the
smoke- wreathed studio, he tossed his cigar-
ette into the waste-basket, jumped up from
his desk, and with both hands extended
came to meet me.

“ A eh ! gnadiges Frdulein ! ” he exclaimed,
“ you were so kind to remember me in that
charming way.” Then what do you think
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he did ? He bent over my hand in the
most dignified way and kissed it. T felt
like an empress holding court, and blushed
to the roots of my hair at the honor he had
done me. I took my accustomed chair
beside his at the piano, inwardly praying
that it would not be my ill luck to push off
to the floor any one of the dozens of cig-
arettes which always lie carelessly strewn
about. Then I placed my fugue on the
music rack. Whatever I bring, be it sona-
tina, invention, or merely a counterpoint
exercise, Thuille daringly plays it out
forte . This is so different from the way
Mr. Chadwick does. He seldom if ever
touches the piano when looking over work,
but takes the sheet and leaning back in his
chair “ hears it in his head,” marking the
mistakes with a blue pencil. My fugue
was pronounced recht gut , which made me
very happy, for I had spent several hours
over it. When Herr Professor had finished
with my work he brought out a piece of
music from the cabinet.

“ Here is a thing which is worth your

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while to study,” he said. It was Mozart’s
Serenade in II fiat major for wind instru-
ments, including the corno di bassetto and the
contrafcigotto. If you want a task, try to
play it from score at sight. Thuille rattled
it off as though it were the simplest exercise.
I could not repress a sigh when he had
finished.

“ Acli Gott , my child ! ” he exclaimed,
smiling at my hopeless expression ; “ 1 don’t
expect you to play it now like that. Study
the construction and the instrumentation.
You will learn much from it.”

As I rose to go I noticed a number of
loose manuscript sheets on his desk.

“ This is a new piece for orchestra I am
doing,” said he.

A page of full orchestra score always
fascinates me. It’s rather odd, when you
stop to think of it, now isn’t it, that all
those little black dots with tails to them
represent actual sounds of different instru-
ments and that they together produce an
harmonic whole ? There is as much individ-
uality in the writing of these dots as in
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handwriting. Thui lie’s notes are very small,
distinct, and closely written. Professor Paine
has a large, firm hand. Chadwick’s notes
appear as though hastily dashed off, although
perfectly legible. I remember distinctly the
day he showed me the score of his brilliant
Symphonic Sketches. It looked interestingly
complex, although, to tell the truth, what im-
pressed me most were the original verses
which preceded each sketch. They cleverly
portray a definite mood, and are, as it were,
the key to what follows. Never by any
chance do these appear in the program book,
so the listener is left to puzzle out for him-
self just what the composer means to convey.

I am to begin soon to study overture form,
and Thuille asked me to bring Beethoven’s
overtures with me at my next lesson.

Later .

W e are both much struck with the change
in Fraulein Hartmann. She is much paler
than she was before we went to Meran, and
flushes nervously at the least excitement.
Miltterchen , who has the misfortune to be
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next to Frau von Waldfel at table, inquired
if her niece were ill.

“ Indeed, no ! ” answered the Hungarian
woman somewhat sharply. “ What can
you expect when a girl betrothed to an
officer makes ready for a grand wedding in
the spring ? There is much to be done and
dozens of gowns to be ordered. My niece
is merely tired with the happiness of it all.”

At that moment I caught Fraulein Hart-
mann exchanging a glance across the table
with the Poet’s Wife. In that one, quick
flash I read many things, for the eyes of
the former betokened genuine distress, while
the reassuring look which met hers was that
of a sympathizing friend. A second later
the Poet’s Wife was tactfully leading Frau
von W aldfel to give her views on the new
cooking-school, while Fraulein Hartmann
abstractedly replied to the queries of a stout
American woman who sat next her. This
new arrival is merely here for a few days.
She and her apologetic-appearing husband
are “doing” Germany, Italy, and France
complete in three weeks.

10 [ 145 ]

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“ I want ter know where those pictures
of Reuben are. Baedeker stars ’em three
times,” said the stout traveller, turning to
me.

1 was longing to ask “ Reuben who ” ?
but Mutterchen , evidently sensing my temp-
tation, pressed my foot under the table ;
so I merely said as politely as I could, “ I
think you mean the pictures in the old
Pinakothek by Rubens,” and gave them
the directions to Barer-strasse. While they
were commenting upon them, I wondered
what could have happened during our ab-
sence to make Fniulein Hartmann and the
Poet’s Wife close friends. I wanted to ask
if Lieutenant Blum had been at Meran, but
intuitively I felt it best not to mention
the subject. Here is indeed a romance to
which I have found no key, as Omar would
say.

The Conservatory is open again and
everything is in full swing. In spite of the
fact that I have very little opportunity to
practise on the piano — because my work for
Thuille requires the greater part of my time,
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— I enjoy the lessons immensely. When
we read at sight I find them especially inter-
esting. We have been playing some splen-
did things for two pianos, among them those
lovely Schumann variations in B^7 major.
If you don’t know them get them by
all means. Yesterday we finished Brahms’
symphony in E minor, with its vigorous
allegro giocoso , and have begun Liszt’s
Symphonic Poems.

How everything helps everything else in
music ! The orchestra reveals its nuances
twice as clearly when one is familiar with
the actual material of a work, and then in
composition it is absolutely necessary to
have a broad field of literature from which
to draw models and examples.

Poor Frau Bianci is in a terrible state
over my pronunciation of German. “It
will go in speaking,” she says, “ but, ach
Gott ! must be much finer for singing ! ” I
managed to get Beethoven’s “ Kennst du
das Land ? ” to suit her, but only after
much toil for both of us. I repeated each
phrase a dozen times after her before I was
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allowed to sing it. Truly, I feel very
young and irresponsible. Don’t talk about
musical temperament and feeling to me !
My one idea is to get the vowels open
enough and to pronounce these fiendish
umlauts in the approved fashion. I fell
down most shamefully on Schubert’s “ Mar-
guerite at the Spinning-Wheel.” You know
how wonderfully sad and beautiful that is.
Bianci was quite pleased at my rendering
of the first verse. Then I sang the second,
where the music works up climactically and
the words run,

“ Sein hoher Gang, sein’ edle Gestalt,

Seines Mundes Lacheln, seiner Augen Gewalt,
Und seiner Rede Zauberfluss,

Sein Handedruck, und ach, sein Kuss ! ”

At this point Frau Bianci broke off playing,
and leaned back in her chair with a sigh.
Then she said with cutting sweetness of
tone, “ The idea of this song is to make
your audience cry, not to make them laugh.
That word is Lacheln , Lacheln , Lacheln ! ”

I felt as though I had suddenly shrunk
from Marguerite to a naughty child of five.

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Then a sense of rebellion stirred me. I
wanted to tell her that I had not been born
with a German throat, and that sueli tilings
as umlauts were a disgrace to any language.
However, I controlled myself and said
nothing.

“ I think you had better go into Hofre-
gisseur Muller’s class,” she said. “It will
be of great benefit to you. Please attend
to-morrow at nine o’clock.”

Very meekly I answered, “ Yes, Frau
Professor,” as I picked up my music and
went out, not having the faintest idea
who Hofregisseur Muller was, nor what his
sonorous title meant.

At nine the following day I was at the
Conservatory. On the stairs I met Miss

P , a Philadelphia girl who is in my

piano class. She explained to me that Herr
Miiller was the Regisseur, that is, the coach
for acting at the opera house, and that his
class was the Aussprache, or dramatic class,
for the vocal students who were to sing in
public. She herself is studying for opera
and finds her work with him very beneficial.
[ 149]

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“ But I ’m not going on the stage,” said I,
quite startled. “What does one have to
do?”

Miss P laughed at my distressed ex-

pression. “ Why, nothing but read before
the class. Your pronunciation is corrected
by Herr M tiller. It is just as good as a
German lesson,” she said. “ Gh, by the bye,
don’t mind if they laugh at you. They
always laugh at foreigners.”

With this parting shot as my encourage-
ment, I went in. The room, on the upper
floor just opposite the hall where we have
the chorus rehearsals, is large and barnlike.
A grand piano stands in dignified solitude
in the centre, and at the end, near the green
porcelain stove, is a long table around which
the class sits. Herr Muller has his place at
the head. He is an interesting type of
man, very portly, with snow-white hair and
mustache, and a pair of noticeably keen,
speculative eyes. The appreciation of the
humorous is strongly marked on his broad
features.

“ Eine A merikancrin ! ” he said, smiling,
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as I came in. It is odd how quickly the
people here detect our nationality. He
motioned me to a chair, then slowly drew a
large watch from his pocket and laid it on
the table before him.

“Well, Fraulein, what have you?” he
inquired of the first girl on his left, who
promptly handed him the “ Bride of Mes-
sina” and going to the farther end of the
room began to recite shrilly a passage by
heart. At every line the Herr Hegisseur
would thunder forth criticisms in his great,
vibrant voice. When her turn, which lasted
five minutes, was past, he called on the next
girl, a soft-voiced, shrinking creature in a
low-necked blouse. She murmured halt-
ingly that she had “ Das Veilchen ” (The
Violet). “ A ch! Das Veilchen /” lisped he,
with his head on one side, in the same tremu-
lous tones. The imitation was such a capital
one that we all laughed. In the bare room
the effect was that of a hilarious whoop. I
began to see what was in store for me.
After a few wretched moments I determined
to take the whole affair as a ioke. There
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were nine girls to be called on before it came
my turn, but in what seemed an incredibly
short space of time they had all finished and
Herr Muller was calling my name.

“ Recite one verse very slowly,” said he.

44 Meine Ruhe ist liin ” (My rest is o’er), I
began bravely, feeling how poignantly ap-
plicable the line was to my present situation.
Throughout my recital I could plainly hear
titterings from the girls, but I kept my eyes
firmly fixed on the picture of Beethoven
over the door. When I had finished, Herr
Regisseur laid the book down on the table,
leaned back in his chair, and laughed. The
whole class joined with him. 'Not to be
outdone, I laughed too, albeit somewhat
weakly.

“ Now much louder and slower, Frdulein
nus Amcrika ,” he said. “Repeat after me,
4 Meine Ruhe ist hin .’ ”

It was the same thing that I had tried
with Frau Bianci, only now I enunciated
every syllable with painful effort, my voice
pitched to fortissimo.

“Not bad,” said he, when I had finished,
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although his eyes twinkled. “ Learn another
verse for next time.”

We all went over to the Gartner Platz
Theatre last week to see “ The Geisha.” The
little opera house is very cosy, but oh ! how
strange “ The Geisha ” sounded in its new
word-clothes ! From a musical standpoint
it was delightfully given, but to my mind
the Germans have not snap enough to pro-
duce light opera well. We have seen two or
three things there, among them Strauss’
charming Flcdermaus , and have invariably
remarked the same thing. The chorus sang
excellently, but were selected with absolutely
no eye for beauty or grace. And how the
Amazons did wear their armor ! They re-
minded me more of tired waitresses after a
hard day’s work than the spirited war-maidens
they were supposed to represent. Sparkle,
vivacity, delicacy, — all these elements which
make light opera what it should be, — were
lacking. I am convinced that God created
the Germans for grand opera and that in
the captivating froth of operettas they are
distinctly out of their element. One wishes
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he might look into the music of the future
and see how the school of the versatile
American will eventually evolve ; whether it
will be individually characteristic, or blindly
content to follow the path laid down by its
forerunners across the sea.

There is splendid skating now in the Eng-
lischer Garten. Last Saturday after lessons
six of us met at the Sieges Thor with our
skates. The ice on the G?~osse Hesselohe ,
the pond at the upper end of the garden,
was in excellent condition. At the farther
end of it the International Hockey Team,
composed of men from the University of
Munich and the Polytechnic, was having a
match with some strangers. The Germans
skate very well and seem devoted to the
sport. This seems rather odd to me, as they
do not as a rule care for outdoor exercise
except walking. Golf is unknown as yet,
and although they have a game which they
call football, it would hardly be recognized
by that name in our country.

We had a delightful afternoon and came
back ravenous for supper.

T 154]

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Friday.

I have n’t yet told you what a time I had

to get the candy S sent. It was the day

after your bountiful Christmas box came.
By the bye, I trust you have received our ac-
knowledgment of it by this time, and I want
to tell you now that the plum pudding was
not hurt a particle. The cook steamed it,
and we invited all the pensionnaircs to share
it with us at dinner. If you could have
but heard their compliments, you or your
cook would certainly have blushed with
pride. Why, even Frau von Waldfel con-
fessed that, after all, people did have some-
thing good to eat in America, a fact she
had never formerly believed. But about
the candy.

In my morning’s mail I found a Legitima-
tions-Karte. Does n’t that sound imposing,
as though I had graduated with honors
from some academy ? It really is nothing
more than a statement that a package lies
in the custom-house waiting to be called
for. The office itself is in a large room
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like a hall, and full of all sorts of bundles,
boxes, and burlap bags, which look like the
accumulation of years. The blue-bloused
Dienstmann behind the counter found my
box for me and cut the string, for which
I, of course, gave him a tip. (You know
nothing is free in Germany. We have to
pay even for our programs at the theatre
or opera.1)

Having concluded this first matter, I
walked down a corridor and into the room
on the right. Here I took my place at
the end of a long line of people. It was
certainly twenty minutes before I reached
the scales, for all the packages are weighed,
you know. With impressive dignity the
burly man in charge leisurely weighed my
box, recorded the number, and directed me
into yet another room.

Accordingly I made my way to the desk
where duties are registered. Here I waited
again in line for some time. After all this
red tape I fancied I should have to pay
at least six marks, but when my turn came

A universal custom all over Europe.

[156]

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I found that only forty-five pfennigs were
required before I could make my escape.
As I began tying my box together yet
another of these persistent officers accosted

me.

“Your number,” said he, as if I were a
freshman taking an entrance examination.
I stared at him, then recalled the red figures
on my package.

“ Two hundred and two,” I said.

“You must step here,” he announced
authoritatively.

I was so tired of stepping this way and
that, that my first impulse was to refuse,
but for fear that this might mean the sacri-
fice of my real American candy, I followed
him meekly into the next room, where he
solemnly scribbled something in a big black
book. Then, with a flourish which shook
the gold fringe of his uniform, he handed
me a paper.

“ That is all,” he said.

“ All ? ” I asked. Now that escape seemed
so near 1 doubted its possibility.

“ That is all,” he repeated, with a low
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bow. I turned on my heel and never
slackened my pace till I was at the door
of the pension. By this ridiculous pro-
ceeding I had lost just two hours on
my counterpoint. The candy, however, is
wonderful ! I never tasted anything more
refreshing. Certainly, Germany is no place
for candy — nor for doing things quickly,
either.

On the fifteenth came the first production
in Germany of the French opera Messidor
before a crowded audience at the opera
house. The libretto is by Zola and the
music by Bruneau. The work is typical of
its school, especially in the orchestration.
As in some of Massenet’s pieces, the trom-
bones burst forth every few minutes, as if to
say, “ Don’t fancy for a moment, kind public,
that we have gone out for a glass of beer.
We never miss but a few bars.” The so-
called symphonic Lcgende vom G-oIde , a
symbolic pantomime, if I may so call it,
which opens the third act, struck me as
unutterably tawdry, but the last scene had
a perfectly charming setting, and the climax
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was very effective. At the final curtain
the composer was called out several times,
but the opinion of the audience seemed to
be divided, for although the applause was
plentiful, continued hissing from the oppo-
nents of the French school was distinctly
audible. Bruneau is tall and slight, with
black pointed beard and waxed mustache.
He responded in several constrained little
bows, as though charmed with the applause,
and as if utterly unconscious of any less
complimentary sounds.

We are hearing much talk of balls and
frivolity, for the carnival is just begin-
ning. Already the Baron is planning to
make up a large party for something,
and of course I shall write you all about
it. Louise and Edith are coming over
to do ear-training to-night at eight, and
it is already time for supper, so this must
end my letter for to-day. All good wishes
for you.

M.

Do you know the “ Beethoven-Lied ” by
Cornelius ? The greater part of it is com-
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posed of the principal theme of the first
movement of the Eroica Symphony. We
sang it in the chorus hour on Thursday. I
should think it might be a splendid thing
for your club to work at.

[160]

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TTTTTTTTTT T T I rTT YTTTTTTX TTT TT IX XX TTTTTXXI TXTXTXTX IXTXTXTX I X II I X XXIX IIIHIlf

D GIVE EVERY PFENNIG IN

my possession to walk into your study

to-day and take you by surprise. In
fact, I have stopped in the very midst of
my orchestration lesson to tell you so. My
chord of the seventh is unresolved, my flutes
and oboes are hanging in midair, and my
horns are blowing away on the fifth, all be-
cause a wave of the Indescribable swept
over me, and I simply had to throw down
my pencil and talk to you !

The preliminary symptoms of this abomi-
nable Something appeared this morning when
my mail failed to arrive. Then after three
hours’ hard work on a new fugue-subject,
1 came to the conclusion that what I had
written was absolutely worthless, and thrust
it in the waste-paper basket. In the after-
noon no letters came, but several news-
papers, whose essential feature consisted in
describing varied and brilliant festivities at
home. I could not repress a sigh as I read.

February 4*

Du liebes Cecilclien :

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Finally Georg came bowing in with the
announcement that the opera for the even-
ing had been changed and Der Freisckutz
substituted for “ Lohengrin.” I felt like
throwing my ink-well at the Obelisk, run-
ning down to the booking office in Prom-
enade-Platz, and engaging a passage to
America on the spot.

Not that I was really angry with the
Obelisk, for I have but one dearer friend in
all Munich, and that is the Fountain. The
latter, however, no longer sings as I pass.
It has, as it were, retired for the season, and
a hideous paling of gray boards hides it com-
pletely from view. Such is the inartistic
effect of winter. I can’t tell you how much
I miss its ever sympathetic, ever beautiful
voice. Indeed, so barren and desolate is the
upper end of the Platz, that I changed my
route of walking and thus came to make the
acquaintance of the Obelisk. Not only do
I pass by daily, but whenever I look out of
my window I can see in the distance its
slender, black shaft sharply outlined against
the sky. Strange, is it not, with what a
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keenly human note inanimate things some-
times appeal to us ? J ust as I hear and love
the Voice in the Fountain, so I draw a
feeling of protection from this towering
creation of stone, as though a kindly sentinel
were standing guard over me and mine.

Since my mood to-day is gray in color, I
am going to tell you of the gayest thing
which has happened since I wrote, namely,
a gorgeous masked ball, for you know it is
carnival season now and frivolity reigns su-
preme. I have been working so constantly
lately — for my long lessons with Thuille
and the work at the school take practically
every moment of my time — that the ball
seemed like an extraordinary piece of dissi-
pation. Therefore I was quite excited as I
joined the party of pensionnaires in the salon
on Tuesday evening. What a cosmopolitan
lot we were ! The curious jumble of German,
French, Italian, and English was laughable.
The stout American and her pocket-edition
of a husband have departed and given place
to two Italian women who converse equally
well in three languages. The Poet’s Wife
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always speaks perfect French with Herr
Doktor, which won his heart long ago. Of
course we were all chatting of the frolic to
come as we clambered into the droschkies
awaiting us at the door. The ball, it seems,
was given under the auspices of the press.
The Baron had obtained invitations for us
through a member of the Jugend staff.
(The Jugend is that very artistic periodi-
cal which you have perhaps seen.) There
were so many of us that a box had been
engaged, for the affair was held at one of
the theatres.

Every one who attended was obliged to
wear a costume representing some feature
pertaining to the woods, and it required no
little thought to design something original
and effective. Fraulein Hartmann and I
had decided to go as flowers, and Mutter -
chen and the Poet’s Wife put their heads
together and created a Rose gown and a
Violet gown. Frau von Waldfel was so
agitated over her own costume that she
quite forgot to criticise ours. She had chosen
to represent a bee, and had arrayed herself
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in black netting. On her head was a crown
of black and yellow, and from her shoulders
hung, or should have hung, a pair of gauze
wings. But something went wrong, and the
wings, instead of suggesting airy flittings
through space, drooped at a curious angle
_ and gave the impression that they were not
mates. However, her distress was mitigated
by the Baroness, who declared that the cos-
tume was 4 4 wonderfully becoming,” and as
soon as she arrived she forgot to worry
about her wings in the excitement of the
ball itself.

What a fascinating sight burst upon us as
we stepped inside the ballroom ! The whole
place was alive with a dancing crowd of
fairies, gnomes, flowers, butterflies, and dry-
ads, who flitted past in a bewildering whirl
of ever changing color. All the women
wore little black masks, which gave them a
most coquettish appearance. The men were
not masked, but their costumes were fully as
artistic. As I watched the glittering throng
moving to the strains of a fascinating waltz
which came floating out from behind a grove
[ 167]

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of evergreens on the stage, I could easily
fancy I was in fairyland.

Just as we were about to cross the hall
Fraulein Hartmann caught me by the arm.

“ I ’ve torn my gown,” she said in a hur-
ried, excited manner, as she held up the
ragged ruffle on the edge of her train. 44 I
must go to the dressing-room and fix it.
Will you tell my aunt ? And oh ! please
say it may take twenty minutes or — or a
half-hour.”

I looked at her in surprise. Her cheeks
were flushed brilliantly, and I would have
given much to have seen the expression of
her eyes, which her mask half hid.

“ Why, if you would let me help you ”

I began, but she interrupted, pressing my
arm tighter.

44 Let me go alone, please, hleine Ameri-
kanerin .” Her voice was pleading and
oddly intense. 44 It ’s only such a short time
— and, believe me, there is nothing wrong,
7~eally. I shall thank you always.”

Before I had an opportunity to reply she
had slipped away in the crowd. To say I
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was amazed were to put it mildly. I was
dumfounded. Two points alone seemed
clear in my mind : first, that Fraulein Hart-
mann had no idea of spending a half-hour in
sewing on a few inches of ruffle ; second, that
whatever her motive for remaining away
might be, it was “ nothing wrong ” ; her
frank, sweet nature utterly forbade such an
idea.

Rather troubled, I caught up quickly with
the others of the party and entered the box
to find Lieutenant Blum and Lieutenant
Linder waiting. They looked surprised at
seeing me alone, and I hastily explained the
situation. Lieutenant Linder then suggest-
ed that we three take a stroll about the hall,
and we started off, I talking very rapidly, in
the hope of turning their attention from the
Fraulein’s continued absence. I should not
have been a woman had I not myself been a
bit curious about her. We made a tour of
the room and at length came to the head of
a flight of stairs. I declared that I was
dying of curiosity to discover what lay at
the foot, so we descended and found our-
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selves in the very midst of a forest. On
every side extended paths lined with trees
whose branches met above in arches. At
the end of one of the paths we saw a log
hut. Above, through interlaced branches,
shone a silver moon. I could not help ex-
claiming at the beauty of the illusion.

There were countless little arbors and
retreats where couples were sitting out
dances. We had just started to turn down
the path to the right, when I caught sight
of a rose-colored dress in one of these arbors.
A step farther and I saw that the girl lean-
ing against the bench was Fraulein Hart-
mann. Her head was thrown back in a
characteristic attitude and her lips were
parted, as though eagerly listening to the
words of her companion. He — for of
course it was a man — was a broad-
shouldered fellow, with a smooth face and a
sword-cut on his forehead. Bending for-
ward, he looked up intently into the face of
the girl, talking very earnestly, very rapidly,
as if pleading a case under pressure of time.

Quick as a flash I wheeled about and

[170]

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faced the others, for the path was only
broad enough for us to proceed in single file.
I declared this walk stupid ; the hut was
the only thing really worth seeing ; where-
upon my bodyguard, although laughing at
the capriciousness of my sex, obediently
followed. How long I lingered about that
wretched hut 1 can’t say. At last, when
every pretext was gone, I made my way
back again upstairs. What a sigh of re-
lief I gave when we reached the box, for
there sat Fraulein Hartmann, smiling in her
sweet, plaintive fashion, and talking to her
aunt and Herr Doktor with the utmost self-
possession. A moment later we had whirled
away among the dancers, and I did not have
an opportunity to exchange a word with her
alone.

At twelve o’clock the orchestra stopped
playing for an hour and supper was served.
Half of the people had been eating and
drinking the entire evening, for tables had
been spread in the boxes from the opening
of the ball. This did not, however, seem to
make any difference in the keenness of their
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appetites now. We had a very jolly time
in our box, for beside the pensionnaires were
several Americans. Among them were Mr.
and Mrs. Albert Sterner. You are doubt-
less familiar with the delightful work of Mr.
Sterner. He has won considerable reputa-
tion, especially for his illustrations. Both
he and his wife added much merriment to
the party, for they are very entertaining.
The ball began again at one, but no one
thought of going home till four o’clock.
We left Lieutenant Linder still dancing.

“ This lasts till five,” he explained, as he
took us to our carriage. “ I shall get a cup
of coffee at the restaurant, change to my
uniform, and be ready for Dienst (service) at
six. I really have n’t time to go to bed.”

I captured two very pretty souvenirs of
the occasion, one of which you shall have to
decorate your den. Every one who went
down on the floor wore a favor made of blue
ribbon, fastened with a gold head of Folly.
Lieutenant Linder and Herr Martens both
presented me with theirs, and in spite of
acquiring a habit for greediness, I smilingly
[ 172]

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accepted both, with a thought for you.
They will look extremely well tacked to
an American wall.

I did so wish for a word with Friiulein,
but she drove home alone with her aunt.
As I wrote you, I only see her at table, and
so any conversation of a confidential character
is out of the question. She is not a girl to
practise deception, unless forced by circum-
stances, hence I fancy that there is some-
thing of a serious nature behind her action.
Evidently the handsome young man with
the sword-cut is the key to the mystery!
Very likely she is in love with him, instead
of with that disagreeable Blum. Were she
an American girl it would not take her long
to throw over the uniform and marry the
man she loves ; as it is, with her family and
an officer weighing the balance on the
opposite side of the scales, I fear the stu-
dent’s chances are not the most favorable.

After Supper .

At my last lesson Thuille informed me
that he and Tasso were going hunting

[173]

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on Saturday. Would I pardon him if
he gave me my lesson in his hunting
costume ? Accordingly to-day he appeared
in a wonderful green shirt striped with
white, and open at the neck. His jacket,
short trousers and gaiters were of some
rough cloth, and the effect was decidedly
unprofessional.

The train left directly after the lesson,
and Tasso was evidently quite alive to the
fact, for instead of sleeping under the desk
as he usually does, he roamed about restlessly
during the entire hour, and finally became
so importunate that his master unceremoni-
ously put him out. I had taken in a prac-
tice piece scored for wood-wind and horn,
including bass clarinet and contra-fagott.
The ideas on which I had written the part
for bass clarinet were suggested by that
bit for the instrument in the third act of
4 4 Siegfried ” where Briinnhilde is wakened
by the all-powerful kiss. Unfortunately my
result was not what might have been called
an unqualified success. In one measure I
had put a rest at the second beat, after
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writing two notes. This immediately at-
tracted Thuille’s attention.

“ Why, you ’ve left him hanging in the
air ! Poor fellow, he ’s hanging in the
air between heaven and earth ! ” he said
laughing, but not unkindly. I thought
I ought to laugh too, so I joined in,
nervously. It is queer how much more
humorously these things strike one after
a lesson than at the time they actually
happen.

“ This is the way he would have to play
that,” continued the professor. He puckered
up his mouth, held his fingers exactly as the
player would, squinted at my score with his
head on one side, and blew two notes,
“ Poom ! Poom ! ” Then he took the
imaginary instrument suddenly away while
his mouth seemed to be forming the same
tone. He looked so funny that this time I
could not help laughing heartily, and I saw
my mistake at once.

Later we came to a horn passage, and in
place of the mildly flowing chords in half-
notes which I had written he substituted
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eighth-note phrases. “ I thought that would
be too fast,” said I, in self-defence.

“ Study modern scores ! ” he exclaimed.
“ Study modern horn parts ! But don’t
forget the classics either ; and never study
Schumann or Brahms for orchestral writing.
They were both poor scorers.”

1 sometimes wish he employed similes in
his explanations ; they have such a way of
sticking in my head and making me remem-
ber. I recall now an especially vivid one
which Chadwick once made to his orchestral
class : “ Here you have your instruments
of the orchestra just like so many colors on
a palette,” he said. “ You combine different
ones just as you mix your colors, to obtain a
desired effect. Your task is to make a com-
plete, finished picture. Choose your subject
and go ahead, but take care to select your
materials wisely.”

If you remember, Professor John K. Paine
has also a fondness for illustrating his
point in this manner, only he chooses litera-
ture instead of art as the source from which
to draw his comparisons. I can see us now
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sitting side by side in that dingy little room
in Vaughan House before the new music
room existed, taking notes on his lectures,
and can hear him saying, “ Beethoven is
the Shakespeare of music.” Do you re-
member the day when Miss R brought

her dog into the class, and Professor Paine,
after peering at it mildly over his glasses
from his seat behind the table, made some
witty remark about the increased interest in
his lectures which now drew the very beasts
to hear him ? And later, how kindly but

firmly he insisted that Miss R leave

her pet at home hereafter, inasmuch as he
had already punctuated his paper on Haydn,
and he did not consider the assistance of the
dog, who broke in every now and then with
sharp barks, at all necessary.

As soon as the lesson was over I hurried
home, for Miitterchen and I had seats for
the Zauberflote that evening. W e had
an early supper in our rooms, for the opera
began at half-past six. I had not heard a
Mozart opera since last September, when
the Mozart-cycle was held in the Residenz
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Theatre. Then I enjoyed Cosi fan tutte ,
with Fritzi SchefF as Despina. The Residenz
Theatre is an ideal place to hear Mozart.
It is only large enough to seat eight hun-
dred persons, and the orchestra sounds most
effective. The Hof Theatre is too large for
the production of Mozart’s operas. After
one act of the Zauberflote I began to find
the orchestra thin and somewhat monoto-
nous. When the music is really so beauti-
ful, it seems a pity not to give it under the
best conditions.

Fraulein Hartmann and her aunt sat just
across from us in the balcony. I hoped
that we might all walk home together, but
when we met at the door afterwards there
was Lieutenant Blum, important and self-
satisfied, waiting to escort them.

Good night now, my dear.

Fasch ing- Di enstag

{Shrove Tuesday ).

Miinchen gone mad ! Munchen with
dignity thrown to the winds and cavorting
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in the dress of a clown ! Miinchen laughing,
dancing, fairly shrieking with pure glee !
The misty atmosphere through which one
always views the distant majesty of the
Maximileum as one looks down Maximilian-
strasse is curiously filled with a new sort of
snowflake, a tiny, square atom which may
be red or green or the most vivid of yellows.
The sidewalks are packed with a half-crazed
throng, some in vari-colored costumes,
others in street dress, but all pelting one
another with confetti, while the street
itself is crowded with slow-moving lines of
carriages whose occupants join no less wildly
in the fun. And all this because it is the
last day of the carnival.

My first glimpse of the frolic to come
was afforded me on Saturday. I was deep
in the midst of a canonic imitation when
there came a knock on the door and in burst
Karl, radiant, his cheeks aglow with ex-
citement. He was dressed in a wonderful
costume, which consisted of a loose white
shirt with black silk pompons down the
front, white trousers, a gigantic white

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ruff about the neck and a high pointed
hat.

“ Bin ich niclit nett , gnadiges Fraulein ? ”
(Am I not fine ?) he cried, kissing my hand
with mock deference and prancing about
the study. “ Just wait till you see me to-
morrow ! Then I am to have a grand
mustache and all kinds of red and green
designs painted on my cheeks ! ”

He grinned with delight at the thought
of these cannibalistic decorations, which,
however, struck me as more appropriate
for a circus than a Sunday promenade.

To-day Mutter chen , the Baroness, Herr
Martens, and I took a carriage before the
house at two o’clock. One’s first carnival
is not a thing to be taken calmly and I was
all excitement, staring to right and left, and
craning my neck in my endeavor not to
miss anything. On every corner we passed
stood old women and men with little push-
carts full of bright-colored bags of confetti
or baskets of Luft-ScJdangen (long paper
streamers done up in small rolls, to be
thrown through the air like those we have
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at the Harvard Class Day exercises around
the statue). For ten pfennigs (two and
one-half cents) one could obtain a generous
supply, and following the Baroness’ sugges-
tion, we stocked the carriage well.

We found the streets already so crowded
that we were forced to proceed very slowly
towards Max-Joseph-Platz. Just as we
reached the post-office a horn blew sharply,
policemen hurriedly pushed back the crowd,
and the First and Second Cavalry regiment
officers came galloping by us and on down
the street between the two long lines of
carriages. Their appearance was most gro-
tesque. Dressed as clowns, in suits of
black or white, their painted faces made
them all look alike. With snapping whips
they urged on their horses at full speed.
The excited animals seemed to enjoy the
fun as much as their riders, and shook their
gayly ribboned manes proudly.

Hardly had we started again, for our car-
riage had come to a halt to let them pass,
when I heard a familiar voice cry, “ Hola ! ”
and as I turned to see who was shouting, a
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handful of confetti was thrown straight in
my face. For a moment I was angry, for
the sensation of eyes and mouth suddenly
full of paper is not conducive to amiability.
Then, realizing the absurdity of losing my
temper at such a time, 1 dived my hand
into a bag to retaliate on my antagonist.
Before I could discover him another shot
landed in the back of my neck and over my
hat a Luft-Sehlcuige came floating.

“ Caught you that time, gncidiges Fi'tiu-
lein ,” said a voice, and I met the laughing
glance of Karl, who jumped on the step
of our carriage and rode along with us.
His white costume was sadly soiled, but
he had fulfilled all his promises as to the
horrible wonder of a painted mustache
and streaked cheeks. A North American
Indian could not have improved on him.

“ I Ye ridden up and down five times al-
ready,’' he said, as he jumped off* to pay a
similar visit to some friends just across.

“ There s Lou and the girls,” I cried,
catching sight of a carriage in the opposite
line coming up the street as we went down.

[182]

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Having learned my lesson I was not slow
to put it in practice, for standing up in the
carriage 1 pelted them mercilessly, Herr
Martens supplying me with a fresh bag
every time I needed one, and the Baroness
joining enthusiastically in the attack.

It was not a one-sided battle, for the girls
were quick to return our shots, and the aim
of the little Italian count who was with
them was excellent. You should have seen
our carriage when they were finally out of
range. The floor, up to our shoe-tops, was
filled with confetti ; our jackets were cov-
ered with it, and from the shoulders of the
driver, from our hats, from the sides of the
carriage hung countless brilliant streamers.

At the big statue we turned and came
back. When we finally succeeded in reach-
ing the post-office we found a most excit-
ing thing taking place. A company of
clowns on horseback, whom we recognized
as the cavalry officers who had earlier passed
us, were forming in line at the farther end
of the Platz. Suddenly they set off with
brisk canter, swung around the statue of
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Max Joseph, and dashed at full speed up
the high flight of stairs leading to the opera
house ! They came back rushing down the
driveway. The horses were almost beside
themselves with excitement, for their officers
leaning far forward, brandished their whips,
dug in their spurs, and urged on the beasts
by frantic shouts and exclamations, while
the crowd of onlookers cheered wildly. It
was a thrilling sight, and I watched them
breathlessly. I could not help feeling that
at any moment one of these half-crazed
creatures, now flecked with foam, might lose
his balance and fall backwards down the
steps crushing his rider beneath, and so I
gave a relieved sigh as I saw the men at last
dismount, give their quivering steeds to an
orderly, and adjourn to the cafe opposite.
Just then the Baron and Herr Doktor, who
were walking, came up to our carriage.

“ We ’ll take you into the cafe for a mo-
ment,” said the Baron. “ It is apt to grow
rather rough there later, but you must get a
glimpse of another side of the carnival.”
xlccordingly, well barricaded by the gentle-
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men, we quietly entered the cafe and took
the only vacant table which stood in a
retired corner. Here again the officers had
undisputed possession of the place. They
were laughing, dancing and singing in a bois-
terous though not at all in an offensive fashion.
Meanwhile an orchestra in the centre of the
room played some lively music.

44 Your selection pleaseth me but poorly,”
declaimed a tall fellow with a blue ruff
about his neck, as he tapped on the shoulder
of the director. “Why not soothe our ears
with a ditty akin to this ? ” whistling one of
the popular student airs. He seized the
baton and mounted the platform, rapping
sharply on the rack. The players, entering
into the spirit of the thing, followed him
perfectly. This was not so simple a matter
as it sounds, for he conducted with a ridicu-
lous exaggeration of all the mannerism, ges-
tures and poses of Weingartner. It was
very cleverly done and set every one into
roars of laughter, especially when the fellow
insisted on a pianissimo passage. Then he
would tilt back his head, wave his left hand
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with that curious droop of the finger-tips so
characteristic of the great conductor, and
nonchalantly beat time with his stick at an
angle directed towards heaven.

No sooner had he finished and returned
with low bows of mock modesty to his place,
than an officer in the corner jumped on top
of a table and, stein in hand, began singing.
The crowd, who had gathered around him,
joined in the refrain, clinking their mugs
together, for of course every one was drinking
beer — fa va sans dire . If an officer chanced
to be without any, he made his way to a
table where some onlookers were sitting, and
with a courteous “ beg pardon,” and a grace-
ful raising of the pointed cap, helped him-
self to the largest stein from under the very
nose of its owner, and walked serenely off.
No one seemed to mind this, the original
possessor of the beer least of all, for he
laughed heartily, and ordered the waiter to
bring him a fresh supply. The established
rule of the carnival is to take everything in
the greatest good humor and let the spirit
of fun prevail.

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“ To your very good health ! May you
live long, be prosperous, and see many carni-
vals ! ” said another fellow as he helped him-
self to a stranger’s wine and raised the glass
to his lips.

“That’s Count von E ,” said the

Baroness in a whisper, as he set down the
glass, bowing gravely. “ I should know his
peculiar walk anywhere.”

“It was certainly most interesting,” said
I, as after watching the frolic for half an
hour we walked out into Perusia-strasse.

“ You don’t have anything half as jolly
in America, do you ? ” said Herr Martens,
with a tone of superiority in his voice.
Whenever any one addresses me with that
inflection my spread-eagleism is aroused.
I immediately began to dilate on America
and the American. This time I chose as
my theme “ Fourth of July,” which of all
our celebrations seemed nearest akin to this,
and my glowing description of the manifold
features of Independence Day caused the
carnival to seem like a children’s festival.

Did I write you that the Americans in the
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ixxxxxIXIllxxxxixxxxxxxxxXXxXiXllXllXXxXXXXXXXXXlxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxixxixiiziXTS

pension opposite were to give a St. Valen-
tine’s party ? Owing to illness it was post-
poned to the evening of Fasching Dienstag.
Accordingly we finished our day by a dance
and general frolic with the girls, which was
one of the j oiliest things I have been to this
year. This letter is so full of frivolity that
to tell you of my doings in a musical way
seems most incongruous, so T will save all
such items for my next.

As ever, dear Cecy,

M.

[188]

Limn

|

gmmmiiiiiiiinximxzixxixzinxiiiximiiTiiiTnn

March 3 , 10.30 P. M.

/HAVE JUST RETURNED
from the Moderner Abend at the
Kaim Saal, and am so excited that to
go calmly to bed and to sleep is an impossi-
bility. I don’t know when I have enjoyed
anything as much. The concert, as you
may have judged by the name, was made
up of compositions by living composers.
Stavenhagen arranged it and all the num-
bers but one were played for the first time.
Here is the program :

1. Singspiel Overture .... Edgar Istel.
First time !

2. Ein Zweigesprach, Tone-poem. Max Schillings.
(For solo violin, solo ’cello, and small orchestra.)
[Richard Rettich — Heinrich Warnke.]

First time !

3. Scene and Monologue of
Lukas from the Opera Der

Corregidor

[Anton Dressier.]

First time !

[191]

Hugo Wolf.

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4. Klavierkonzert (op. 6) in B flat

minor Felix vom Rath.

[Anna Langenhan-Hirzel.]

5. III. Act of Gugeline .... Ludwig Thuille.

[Gugeline, Agnes Stavenhagen. The Prince,
Franz Bergen.]

First time !

The names in brackets are those of the
soloists. For some reason or other the or-
der was altered. Thuille’s piece and Hugo
Wolfs changed places. Edgar Istel, who
conducted his own overture, is a tall, broad-
shouldered, fine-looking young fellow, and
a pupil of Thuille. I am in doubt as to
his nationality for he certainly looks too
well groomed for a German. The Schillings
piece was a lovely, sustained thing. That
man certainly knows how to write for the
’cello ! We heard his opera Ingwelde
last week, and remarked the same thing
then. The third number was, however, the
number of the evening. I wish I could de-
scribe to you the enchanting beauty of this
music from Gugeline — its delicacy, fresh-
ness, and tenderness. And yet withal there
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rTTIIIITITTTTTIIITTTITIIIIITlIIIIIirrrillZIIIIIirrTIiniirTIIITITITTTTTTTTT i:

is no semblance of insipidity about it, for in
spite of the dominance of fanciful, graceful
motifs the music every now and then as-
sumes a more passionate tinge, as though an
undercurrent of deeper feeling flowed be-
neath its ' charming surface. Agnes Staven-
hagen, the wife of the director, sang with
great niceness. Thuille has a trick of end-
ing a phrase by a jump to a high pianissimo
note, and she rendered this most effectively.

Prejudiced as I naturally was in favor of
my Maestro, I was not alone in my enthu-
siasm, for at the close of the piece the audi-
ence burst into a storm of applause, cheering,
stamping, and crying “ Bravo ! Bravo ! ”
44 Thuille ! Thuille ! ” The whole house
rose as one person. Thuille, who had been
sitting about eight rows back, at length
came forward. He did not mount the stage,
but remained below the conductor’s stand,
bowing and smiling in the delightful, un-
affected fashion peculiar to him. Again and
again he was recalled, the audience remain-
ing standing and applauding. Clearly, aside
from his musical ability, he is a great
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favorite in Munich. When the tempest
had at last subsided and we had settled
back into our places, Frau Langenhan-Hirzel
appeared to play the concerto of vom Rath.
Her entrance was the signal for a fresh out-
burst of applause, and there was no more
enthusiastic group in the hall than ours in
the east corner, for Polly, Edith, and Louise
are all her pupils and loyally adore her.
“ Frau Langenhan,” as they generally call
her, looked very young as she took her place
at the piano. She is slight, and her short
black hair curls roguishly about her head,
while a pair of dark, innocent eyes give her
an almost childlike appearance. Rut how-
ever youthful she may seem, she plays with
a mastery and force unusual in a woman.
Lescheticsky is proud of her I hear, and one
can readily see why. The concerto itself is
most brilliant and was originally composed
and dedicated to her. Long and prolonged
applause followed its close. Frau Langen-
han-Hirzel bowed repeatedly, and at length
vom Rath came forward and joined her.
He is tall, with extremely light hair. In
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spite of his dignified bearing lie was blush-
ing up to his ears with embarrassment, and
looked greatly relieved to sit down.

As for the last number, we had forgotten
all about it, for we started impetuously off
to the green room. When we entered,
there was the little pianist calmly smoking a
cigarette and carelessly shaking her black
curls from to time with a characteristic
movement of the head. The girls rushed
enthusiastically up to her. After the first
eager words of congratulation they presented
me, and she was most cordial in her greet-
ing as she turned and shook hands, hold-
ing her cigarette in her fingers. Quite a
number of the German women smoke
and she does so constantly, in fact even
when giving lessons, which goes ahead of
Thuille.

But my head all the time was full of
Gugeline — how could one forget it ? —
and I looked about for Thuille. He was
talking to Stavenhagen in the corner, with
his back towards me. A moment later he
turned, and as I went forward with out-
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stretched hand he met me half way. The
beauty of his music had so intensely moved
me, that I grew excited when I endeavored
to congratulate him, and my German flew
away as if on wings. I could only murmur
stupidly something about “ wunderschon ”
(very beautiful) and “ entzuckend” (charm-
ing), the sole adjectives I could at the mo-
ment recall. Perhaps my expression told
him more than my words, for he was good
enough to look much pleased as he shook
hands warmly.

Then we girls all came out together.
None of us cared to hear the rest of the last
number. I for one wanted to be quiet and
think — or rather to hear again in my mind
those haunting, exquisite strains. Is there
anything in the world more marvellous than
music or more indescribable than its hidden
soul ? And now 1 must to bed, and hear it
all over again, I hope, in my dreams.

Munchen, Marcn 6.

As soon as my greetings with Thuille
were over to-day I hastened to congratulate
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him again on the success of his Gugeline
music last Monday. This time my German
was a little more fluent, and I even made
bold to ask him how long it had taken him
to write the act. He said that he started it
in the middle of June, 1899. After waiting
two weeks for text from Bierbaum, and after
countless other interruptions, he finished it
by the end of August.

Then began the lesson. With a sinking
heart I placed my fugue on the rack. I
don’t know how many hours I had worked
on it! At any rate the stretto had almost
reduced me to tears. A stretto is a net, and
if one is not constantly on the watch, he is
caught in its meshes. Thuille looked it
over, made some corrections, and to my
surprise said, “ Sic mid recht Jleissig gewesen,
Fraulein. Die Fugue ist gut” (You have
been very industrious. The fugue is good).
My spirits rose with a leap, for he seldom
praises.

The pupil who was to follow me was
late, so I had time as I drew on my
gloves to express the wish that we might
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hear his new opera produced at the Hof-
Theatre.

44 I don’t know about that,” said he
laughing. 44 I am fortunate if I have my
Lobetanz given. I expect that will appear
about the twenty-second of the month.”

Turning, he opened one of the drawers of
his desk. 44 Here are the complete scores
of them all,” he said, as he touched the
backs of the great books with a tender,
almost paternal pride ; “and here is that
place for the wood-wind in Gugeline which
you remarked on.”

He pointed out the passage in the score,
and to my delight took his seat at the piano
and played for some moments.

44 The most laborious thing I ever did in
my life was writing out the orchestral parts
from here on,” he said, playing the theme of
the duet. 4 4 1 thought I should never get

it done.”

His words made me think of something
Mr. Chadwick had said in class one day,
shortly after the completion of his lyric drama
44 Judith.” He declared that reducing the
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orchestral parts so as to make a complete
piano accompaniment was one of the most
tedious things he ever experienced. After
all, my dear, the gods are just, and to be
great does not mean that one is free from
drudgery.

Chadwick, by the bye, always had evidences
of his energy on every hand in the form of
proofs or manuscript lying carelessly about
in his studio ; perhaps a song, or a string
quartette, or merely the key to his harmony
book which he was getting out last spring.
Thuille, on the contrary, has nothing to in-
dicate what he is doing — except cigarettes.

After my lesson I stopped in at Polly’s.
I found her playing away at a fearful rate
on Saint-Saens’ G minor concerto, and she
looked so pale and tired that I made her
call everything else off and go for a walk.
We found, however, that by hurrying we
could spend a half-hour in the old Pinako-
thek, and so we made our way to Barer-
strasse. You must come over if only to
see these splendid Holbeins ! The master’s
portrait of himself is alone worth a trip, and
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then Diirer’s four apostles ! The St. Paul
is my favorite, he is so majestic, but Polly
prefers St. Mark. She says he looks happier
than the others.

I must not forget to tell you about taking
tea at the Sterners’. They live over by the
river, and we wandered through a maze of
streets before reaching the right house.
Then we climbed numberless flights of stairs
in true German fashion, and found ourselves
in the most charming apartment under the
very roof itself. Mrs. Sterner received us in
a picturesque, low-studded room, which had
at one end a large bay-window, where the
tea table was spread. She is very slight and
girlish in appearance. As we sat sipping
our tea I continually caught tantalizing
glimpses of a big studio at the farther side.
It was not long before the artist himself
entered and invited us, when we had quite
finished, to see his “work shop.”

Such a fascinating place as it is, not at all
of the conventional order, with bizarre nick-
nacks and curios, oriental hangings, and stale,
tobacco-scented air ; but a big, light-flooded,
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cxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxixxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTYT-rra

healthy room adorned merely with sketches,
pictures and easels, for the Sterners have
only pitched their tent in Munich for a
brief season and are off in the spring for
Italy.

There is a wealth of treasures in Mr.
Sterner s portfolio, and his field of work is a
delightfully broad one. Of his illustrations,
those for a new edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s
works interested me most. Each picture
had such definiteness about it that one could
guess at once the lines it interpreted. Two
of his most famous paintings which we asked
to see were in America, but he showed us
the exquisitely taken photographs. One
represents a charming child, the other is
that which 1 have seen so often in your
own music room, — William Mason at the
keyboard.

“ And the new picture, is it finished yet ? ’
asked Edith, who had been there before.

“ It ’s the old story ! ” he said ; “ I Ve put it
aside to work on pot-boilers ! ”

Fancy calling those wonderful illustrations
of his by such a brutal name.

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iTTirr.

Thursday.

At last, my dear, I have something defi-
nite to tell you about Fraulein Hartmann.
The most distressing thing occurred at
dinner to-day. Just as we were having
salad and composedly conversing about
Arabic customs — a favorite subject of Herr
Doktor and the Poet — in came the Italian
ladies, with profuse apologies for their tardi-
ness. They had been 44 doing ” the Bavarian
National Museum, and lingered too long
over the ivory collection. One of them
crossed to Fraulein Hartmann’s place and
handed her a letter.

44 I met the postman on the stairs,” she
said, 44 and told him I would take any mail
up, so he gave me this.”

Fraulein thanked her for her kindness, then,
glancing at the handwriting, suddenly flushed
to the roots of her hair. A second later her
aunt, who had been looking over her shoulder,
snatched the letter from her hand. Frau
Von Waldfel’s face was crimson with anger
and her black eyes snapped maliciously,
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“ I ’ll look after this, young lady,” she
said, thrusting the letter into her pocket.
“A pretty pass when engaged girls receive
love letters from other than their betrothed.”
Her voice echoed harshly in the complete
stillness of the room. Fraulein’s face was a
study — anger, mortification, and resentment
at the insult thus publicly inflicted on her.
She started as if to retort, then, recovering
her self-possession, she folded her napkin
with dignity, rose and left the room. Her
head was proudly erect, but her blue eyes,
usually so tranquil, were smouldering darkly.

Frau von Waldfel looked even more
enraged than before, that her niece should
dare to depart without her permission.
Muttering to herself, she pushed back her
plate with a sharp rattle of her knife and
fork, and went out with a heavy step.

W e were all speechless with astonishment.
The opportune arrival of coffee served to re-
lieve the tension, and the calm voice of the
Poet’s Wife was like oil on tempestuous
waters, as she inquired whether coffee were
a favorite drink of the American people.

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When the meal was over she drew me into
the hall.

“ When you are through with your lessons
come and see me in my room,” she said.

That afternoon she told me the following
about Fraulein Hartmann. It seems that
Fraulein’s parents, who live in Mannheim,
are poor people. Her aunt, however, is ex-
tremely rich. When, last spring, Fraulein
came out of the convent, Frau von Waldfel
sent for her to pay her a visit. She was very
ambitious that her niece should make a
brilliant match, for she is, as you must have
guessed, an intensely proud woman. Indeed,
so anxious was she that she offered to pay
the dowry and introduce Fraulein into so-
ciety. This offer was accepted with delight
by the Hartmanns, and Fraulein made her
debut in Berlin, where her aunt had taken
a fancy to spend the winter. Among other
men whom she met was Lieutenant Blum.
He had, without doubt, heard the rumors of
Frau von Waldfel’s wealth, for he immedi-
ately began to pay court. Matters were
speedily arranged between the two families
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and the young people were betrothed.
Fraulein’s parents were greatly pleased ;
Frau von Waldfel, radiant. Such an honor
that her niece should wed an officer ! Only
Fraulein Hartmann did not seem to rejoice
as she should over the good fortune. She
would have been less than human had not
all these beautiful surroundings, these fasci-
nating frocks and these flattering friends of
her aunt pleased her. But there was an-
other man — there always is a third person
when you stop to think of it — in form of a
student, who had lived next door to the
Fraulein all her life. He loved her, and
she was half in love with him. In fact,
affairs would speedily have come to a climax
had not Frau von Waldfel taken it into her
head to send for her niece just as their love-
affair was at this critical point.

“As time has passed,” continued the
Poet’s Wife, “the less she has cared for
the lieutenant and the more she realizes
that her feeling for Heinrich is deeper
than the passing fancy which her family
would have her believe. Don’t blame her,
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my dear. You American girls are brought
up very differently from ours here, and it is
hard for you to understand. The letter
to-day was, I feel sure, from Heinrich.
Much as she has longed to hear from him,
she is too honorable to permit any cor-
respondence. A short time ago, however,
Heinrich wrote a letter without her aunt’s
knowledge, and begged her to see him.
After much misgiving she consented and
a meeting was arranged ”

44 At a carnival ball ? ” I interrupted.

44 Yes. How did you guess ? Probably
the rash fellow has dared to write and pro-
pose another scheme. 4 Lovers and madmen
have such seething brains,’ ” she quoted.

44 How will it all come out, 1 wonder,”
said I, puzzled.

44 Indeed, I am wondering the same thing.
It was while you were in Meran, you know,
that Fraulein told me this. Her aunt was
ill with the gout, and one morning we went
for a walk together. She was feeling very
unhappy, for in some way an unpleasant
rumor concerning Blum’s past had reached
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her, and I suppose the dear child could n’t
keep her heart pent up any longer.”

At her mention of Meran my mind flew
back to the day I had seen the man I
thought was Blum on the Promenade.

“Was the lieutenant in town then?” 1
asked.

“ No. He had been called away on some
law business,” she answered.

A caller came in just at this point, so we
had no more opportunity to talk together.
I feel perfectly sure now that it was Blum
who was having such a gay time with that
crowd of people. He may have used that
law story merely as an excuse to take a
holiday. I can’t bear to think of that
sensitive, lovable girl as his wife !

Dear me, Cecilia, this is a strange, strange
world ! One would imagine that with ex-
perience and the discretion which comes
with years, things would straighten them-
selves out a bit; but the older one grows
the queerer life is !

Yours problematically and abstractedly,

M.

[ 207 ]

March 22.

Cecilia dear :

HERE IS THE SMELL OF

spring in the air to-day. As I

passed through Odeons-Platz on my
way to my lesson this morning the sun was
flooding the whole square with a delicious
warmth we have not felt for months. A
soft breeze brought across from the Hof-
Garten the odor of freshly upturned earth.
In front of the Feldernhalle the pigeons
were fluttering and whirling, now suddenly
swooping down from the roof, then darting
back again like arpeggios of light. Around
the flag pole a crowd of laughing children
were tossing crumbs, and then running shyly
back into the arms of their bareheaded
nurses as the birds flocked near. The scene,
in a dim way, suggested the Piazza of San
Marco, and I gave a sigh for a sight of
Venice, — its blue, unruffled waters, its
marble palaces, and the white dome of the
Maria della Salute against its peerless sky.

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That reminds me of a secret I have to
tell you. What do you think ? In April
comes the spring vacation at the Conserva-
tory, and Mutterchen is contemplating for
us — mind you, I say contemplating — a
trip to the Italian lakes. Think of it —
Bellagio, Como, Lugano and all the rest !
I don’t dare give myself up to dreaming,
however, for nothing about it is as yet
definitely settled.

Frau von Waldfel and her niece have
gone to Berlin. They intend to stay sev-
eral weeks in order to complete Fraulein’s
already elaborate trousseau. My own opin-
ion is, however, that the aunt has read
Heinrich’s letter and wants to get her niece
away from Munich for fear she may meet
him. Ever since that shocking occurrence
in the dining-room neither Frau von Wald-
fel nor the Fraulein have come to the table,
but have had all their meals served in their
rooms. Of course we do not see the lieu-
tenant now, for which I am duly grateful,
but I do miss the Fraulein and our pleasant
chats together.

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l TTrtTTTTTTTTTTTTTYTTTTYTTTTITITYTYTTrTTTTTTTTTYYTTTTrYTTTTTYrTTYTYTYTYTTTY Z>

The days and lessons have been going on
just as usual save for the interruptions af-
forded by the celebration of the Prince Re-
gent’s birthday which came on the twelfth.
Early in the morning Louise and Edith
called for me to go to the great military
mass at St. Michael’s. It is a rare thing for
women to have cards, for this service is held
for the soldiers alone. According to direc-
tions we made our way up a flight of nar-
row stairs which led from the sacristy, and
found ourselves in the corridor of a balcony.
From this corridor lead several little rooms
which are called by the theatrical name of
boxes. Most of them are reserved for the
royal family and persons of rank. The one
which was allotted to us was almost behind
the high altar and facing the entire congre-
gation. We could not be seen because no
light from the church itself fell on the little
glass windows, tightly closed, which covered
the front of our box, but we could see ex-
cellently, and I shall never forget the bril-
liancy of the scene. I could not help but
contrast the sight before me with that
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which I had beheld within these same walls
last Christmas Eve. Now the church was
filled with a throng of men in dazzling uni-
forms — here a company of privates with
white-plumed helmets, there a group of offi-
cers in the Bavarian blue and scarlet, in the
farther corner a coterie of generals in cream-
colored broadcloth, countless orders gleam-
ing across their breasts. The members of
the royal house were seated directly beneath
us in the choir. They were in full uniform,
and sat in great chairs of red velvet with
kneeling cushions of the same color at
their feet. On the altar steps stood a com-
pany of soldiers with black plumes to their
helmets, while separating the men in the
nave from those in the choir stretched a
great orchestra.

What a wonderful sea of color it was !
The sunshine pouring through the long win-
dows made the gleaming swords, the shining
helmets and the gold-fringed epaulets a thou-
sand times more brilliant. At the close of
the service the band suddenly struck up the
Hallelujah chorus from the “ Messiah.” I
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cannot tell you how impressive it was to hear
these familiar strains amid such strange sur-
roundings. I thought of the many times I
had heard them sung at home. Then as
the trumpets rang gloriously out on that
mighty phrase, 44 King of Kings ! ” and the
whole orchestra came i n fortissimo with the
wonderful 44 Hallelujah ! ” which echoed and
re-echoed in the lofty arches, a blur came
before my eyes. Ah, Cecy dear, the world
may call Handel old fashioned and laugh at
his simplicity, but who has ever written a
hymn of praise so powerful, so convincing
as this ?

On Monday, as usual, came the Wein-
gartner concert. Beethoven’s seventh was
gloriously given ! W eingartner takes the
first movement slower than I have ever
heard it at home, but in the allegro con brio
he simply sweeps the orchestra along. At
the close of the concert occurred the usual
ovation, a number of enthusiastic admirers
staying to cheer and applaud until the lights
were put out. Weingartner’s conducting
of Beethoven without score is far more in-
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spiring than any other directing I have ever
seen, just as the words of an extempora-
neous speaker are more forceful than one
who confines himself to notes.

I was sorry that I could not go to the
'premiere of Thuille’s Lobetanz , but I
attended the second presentation and en-
joyed it immensely. It is just such a dainty
thing as one would expect from his pen but,
by the bye, is not really an opera at all.
The program announced it as a play by
Otto Julius Bierbaum with music by Lud-
wig Thuille. At first, therefore, I was
slightly disappointed, but the whole thing
is so charming that I soon forgot my annoy-
ance at the spoken dialogue. The Princess,
whom Lobetanz loves, was beautifully played
by Tordeck. In the second act there is a
lovely bit, when Lobetanz (Herr Walther)
plays his violin under the tree and sings of
the Princess’ eyes. The text is in reality a
fairy tale, full of imagination and delicacy.

I was discussing the performance with the
little Boer after my lesson at the school to-
day when who should come breathlessly up
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the stairs but Edith. She had been to the
house for me, and finding me gone had
come down to the Conservatory.

“ I want you to go shopping with me,”
she said. “ Do come and help me buy a pair
of shoes.”

So we set out together towards Marien-
Platz. Oh, my dear Cecilia, if you ever come
to Germany, be sure and bring enough
clothing of every description to last till your
return. German ladies are not at all particu-
lar about the cut and fit of their gowns, and as
for their footwear ! Such a time as we had
to-day trying to buy those walking boots !
In the first place we could find nothing nar-
rower than d and Edith has the daintiest
little foot imaginable. Then all the shoes we
saw were so broad, flat and shapeless, that
they had a positively inhuman appearance.
Edith said they looked as though they had
been made for ducks. It was hopeless to try
and make the Fraulein understand what was
wrong.

“ Of course its — it ’s very er-serviceable,”
said I, holding a clumsy thing at arm’s
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length and surveying it critically, “ but is n’t
it just a little too broad ? ”

The Fraulein cast a withering glance at us.
“ Broad ? ” she said, “ why it ’s not broad at
all.”

“ Oh ! ” said I.

“ And they suit perfectly the Countess

von R , Frau Excellenz von S ,

Frau General- Sekretar M .”

“ I ’ll go barefoot before I ’ll wear those
boots,” exclaimed Edith in English, her
cheeks flushing, “ and I don’t care a fig
what these ladies with the long titles wear ! ”
Then, in German, “ Fraulein, the shoes are
quite impossible. Good morning.”

With the bearing of an injured queen
Edith swept out of the store, I following
meekly, and the Fraulein gazing after us
both in open-mouthed astonishment.

It was not till we were half way up the
street that I dared to break the silence
in which my companion had enveloped
herself.

“ It occurs to me in a vague sort of way,”
I began timidly, “that the Baroness men-
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tioned that a new shoe store had been
opened on Residenz-strasse. 1 think she
said they kept American shoes.”

Edith’s face softened. “ Then by all
means let us go there,” she said. “ I ’m
afraid the barefoot idea would be rather un-
comfortable in bad weather.”

Never did the qualities of American shoes
appear so attractive as when we saw them
invitingly displayed in the window of the
new shop. Edith was so delighted at find-
ing something that would fit that she paid
without a murmur the fabulous price de-
manded, and invited me to drink chocolate
with her afterwards at the Hof-cafe.

But just take a word of warning, Cecilia,
and don’t get caught in any such predica-
ment yourself!

Munich, April 2 .

The softest zephyr whispering to a rose ;
the faint fragrance of a lily swaying on its
stem ; a fairy cobweb lying shimmering in
the sun ; this is Beethoven as played by
Ysaye. Never shall I forget his playing,
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and never do I want to hear any one else
play the G major sonata.

Frau L angenhan- 1 1 irzel and Ysaye are
giving a series of concerts consisting of
Beethoven’s sonatas for violin and piano.
Polly and I “went Kategorie” last week.
To “ go Kategorie ” means that we used our
students’ tickets, or Kategorie- Karten, and
obtained admittance at a reduced price.
W e did not receive a seat, and indeed
none were to be had, for as we entered
the hall of the Bayerische Hof, every place
was taken and crowds were standing in
the aisles. Accordingly, we made our way
to the balcony, for beneath the windows
there runs a low, broad step which answers
very well in place of a seat. When we ar-
rived, however, we found that this, too, had
been taken possession of by a crowd of
students who were sitting closely together,
their knees almost touching their chins, and
most of them holding the score on their
laps. We were at a loss what to do, for
that we might be obliged to stand had never
occurred to us.

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“ There must be a step or a window ledge
somewhere,” said Polly, looking vainly
about. Suddenly I spied a table in the
corner, and I threw her a meaning glance.
Quick as a flash she understood and was too
good a Bohemian to be troubled by con-
ventionalities. A moment later we were
gravely sitting on the table side by side, our
feet not touching the floor, our eyes not see-
ing the stage, but our ears straining to catch
every note of that wonderful music. Polly
had brought her score. One of the players
in the Ivaim Saal orchestra comes to her
weekly and they read together, so she is
familiar with all the sonatas. But after a
time I shut my eyes to the printed symbols.
I wanted only to hear, for from the moment
Ysaye draws his bow across the strings “ the
weariness, the fever, and the fret ” fade away,
and one lives in another world. I have
never heard anything more exquisite than
his pianissimo. So marvellously legato and
delicate it is, like a thread of gold, that I
held my breath for fear the tone might
break. It reminded me of all that is beau-
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tiful and dainty and lovely. By some odd
association of ideas, Shelley’s lines about the
lily of the valley came to me :

“ The light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green.”

Frau Langenhan-Hirzel played delightfully.
But what impressed me most forcibly about
her and about Ysaye was their perfect
control.

After all the word artist means nothing
less than control. No matter how deeply
an artist’s feelings may be stirred, no matter
how moved he may be by the intensity, the
passion or the anguish of the moment, he
must always be the master of his emotions.
He must make others cry, weep, exult, but
must himself, while sensing every suggestion,
remain in perfect realization of the situation.
Picture Elizabeth sobbing in the midst of the
Tannhauser prayer ! Or Paderewski break-
ing off in the middle of a bar and burying
his face in his hands ! And yet an artist
must feel more keenly than the average man.
Verily, the gods demand miracles !

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How happy I am to write you that the
trip southward bids fair to be realized within
a short time. We have heard from friends
who have landed at Naples and who hope
to meet us at Milan. You can imagine how
delighted we are to think of seeing some one
from home, for letters at best are unsatis-
factory things. I have so many questions
to ask about everything and everybody that
I shall be worse than the proverbial small
boy.

Mutterchen and I have been down to
Promenade Platz this afternoon buying
trunk straps. Every time we return from
a trip we find that our straps have mysteri-
ously disappeared and no one seems to know
anything about them. I fancy that those
solemn-looking guards could enlighten us
considerably if they chose. The weather
was so delightful that after we had finished
our shopping, which had led us down Max-
imilian-strasse, we decided to take a stroll
along the Gasteig Promenade by the Isar.
We found ourselves in the midst of an idly
sauntering throng, for the greater part of
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Munchen had turned out to luxuriate in the
sunshine. Oh ! my dear, how it would shock
your fastidious taste to see the new Reform
Klcid. All winter the women showed un-
pleasant symptoms of adopting this form of
dress, and now that spring has come the fever
has burst forth. The garments are all en-
tirely in one piece, hanging straight down-
ward, without shape or curve, totally
ignoring the existence of a waist line.
Most of them suggest nothing so strongly as
robes de nuit , and some which have straps
over the shoulders remind one of a feminine
species of overalls. They are invariably too
short in front, and as the fashion for white
shoes prevails (may the gods spare you the
sight of white shoes on German feet !) the
effect is grotesque in the extreme. I believe
the one virtue of these remarkable gowns is
that they are comfortable, but so are bath-
robes, sweaters, and negliges.

Even such a disturbing element as the
Reform Kleid was in time forgotten, for
it is very lovely down here by the Isar, that
same “ Isar, rolling rapidly,” of which every-
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one has read. In place of green banks are
high walls ’of white stone over which trails
picturesque ivy from the terraces on either
side. The Promenade itself stretches along
the edge of the embankment, under great
shady trees. So delightful was it that we
wandered down to the Peace Monument
and lingered there till six o’clock. The sun-
set was not especially brilliant, but the
clouds which remained hanging low in the
fast-darkening sky were wonderful indeed.
They shaded from a dusky violet to deep,
rich purple, and their music was that of
a Chopin prelude, not one of those tempest-
tossed visions, but perhaps the tender, half-
melancholy one in B flat.

There is to be a Vortrags- Abend to-
morrow night which marks the end of the
spring term at the Conservatory. Fraulein
Mikorey, a pupil of Stavenhagen’s, is to play
a Beethoven concerto, a student named
Sieben is to play the violin, and I am to
sing. Wish me luck, Liebchen!

15

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m

Evening .

Just a line before I go to sleep to tell you
that everything went off beautifully at the
concert to-night. In one way it was an
awful experience — awful , dearest of friends,
in its most literal sense. This was not on
account of the hall, I assure you, although
it looked marvellously great and high as one
stepped out of the dressing-room ; nor was
it because of the imposing audience, nor
the crowds of pupils, who stood with critical
attention around the sides of the room.
Each of these factors may have its individual
influence in striking terror to the heart of the
timid performer, but they are all as nothing,
absolutely nothing, I say, in comparison
with that austere, black-coated, solemn-
visaged line of professors who occupy the
front row. You cannot imagine anything
more terrifying than to stand on the plat-
form and look down on this human barri-
cade which shuts one off, as it were, from all
that is friendly and encouraging. Staven-
hagen sat in the centre, with arms majesti-
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cally folded. On either side were the two
women teachers of the school, and then to
right and left stretched that line of frigid
stateliness. There was a certain horrible
fascination about it all, for try as I would to
look over into the audience or up at the
balcony, I found my glance always nervously
returning to some dignified head posed at a
critical angle, or some pair of hands with fin-
ger tips pressed together in judicial attitude.

The moment after I made my very quaint,
very German courtesy — a ceremony insisted
on by the Frau Professor — I suddenly be-
came terribly conscious of the fact that I
was an American, that all these people
before me were German, and that I was
about to sing to them in Italian. If I had
dared, I should have smiled. It was as if
Italian were a language of commerce, by
means of which I was to make a communi-
cation to the audience. But, dear me ! I
forgot all about that and everything — yes,
even the depressing effect of the front row
— when once I got to singing. And when
it was over I could have hugged the fellow

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who cried “Bravo! Amerika! Amerika !”
What mattered it that it was only an unpre-
tentious pupils’ concert ? I could not have
felt any prouder if it had been my debut in
grand opera when Stavenhagen and Thuille
congratulated me, and the latter said, in his
kind way, “We must make that counter-
point run as easily from your pen as those
tones from your lips.”

When one studies singing merely for the
love of it, it is all very well, but it would
make your heart sick to see the number of
American girls over here who are half-starv-
ing themselves in order to study for the
grand opera stage. One sadly wonders how
many of them will ever “ arrive,” but when
an argument is raised or a doubt expressed
as to their ultimate success, they immediately
cite the case of Geraldine Farrar, the Ameri-
can who is at present singing leading roles
at the Berlin opera house. The brilliancy
of her success blinds their eyes to hundreds
of utter failures, to countless half-way suc-
cesses and to the untold drudgery which lies
along the road.

[228]

Gordone, Lake Garda, April 10.

Dear Cecilia : —

AM WRITING IN THE LOVE-

liest and most romantic of gardens,

It lies on the very edge of Lake
Garda. Indeed, only a wall separates this
wealth of green from the blue waves which
plash rhythmically against their stone bar-
rier. Above me are the apple blossoms ; on
either side lie tangles of vine and roses. In
the distance are the neat white paths lead-
ing to the hotel where we are staying. It
is not quite so civilized here as farther up
the slope, where the plants grow in decorous
rows and carefully laid out designs, but I
like it much better, and besides, I get the
breeze — a soft, legato breeze — from the
water, and a sight of the picturesque island
— as yet nameless to me — just across.

We found our way to this charming spot
by means of our old friend, the Brenner
Pass. How changed it all was from three
months ago ! Then everything was covered
with snow, and the trees bowed into crystal

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arches under the heavy weight of ice. Now
the whole earth seems made new with the
soft green of spring. As we rode along
every now and then we caught sight of a
fruit tree in full bloom : peach blossoms of
misty pink making their bit of valley all
aglow, apple blossoms lighting up the
shadow of a threatening, black mountain,
whose snow-tipped summit seemed in some
strange way akin to the patch of white at
its base.

We reached Bozen at seven o’clock, and
to our chagrin could find no accommoda-
tion at the hotels. In vain we pleaded
with the polite proprietors. At loss what
to do we followed in the footsteps of a stu-
pidly smiling Dienstmann who had seized
our luggage at the station and who now
assured us he knew of an excellent inn
where we could find rooms. Putting our
trust in the gods we turned into the court-
yard of a quaint little inn called the Gol-
dene Taube , and inquired of the smiling
Hausfrau if we could have lodgings for the
night. With repeated courtesies she replied
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that there was but one room left, but it was
a wonderfully beautiful room if we cared to
see it. We assured her that we would take
it on the spot, and gratefully climbed three
narrow flights of stairs without a murmur.

Though extremely primitive, the house
was 'neat and clean, but we involuntarily
exchanged glances when the landlady threw
open the door at the head of the last flight
and bowed for us to pass into the room
she had so flatteringly described. Such a
cubby-hole of a place, with a sloping roof,
no carpet and one diamond-paned window,
from which, by stretching out my arm, I
could touch the window of the opposite
house ! Did I say no carpet ? Then I
most humbly apologize, for before each bed
was a blue fragment which, by a powerful
stretch of the imagination might, I suppose,
be called a rug. The floor creaked unmer-
cifully every time we walked across it, and
we were terribly afraid we should lose
something between the cracks. Mutter -
chen was inclined to regard the situation
tragically, but I was rather enjoying the
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whole experience, secretly congratulating
myself on being in an attic chamber which
might bear some resemblance to those in
which the great composers slept, ate, toiled
and created their immortal works.

We had a walk and a drive the following
morning and found Bozen much like Meran ;
both have the same dingy Lauben , the
frescoed houses, the narrow streets and pic-
turesque shrines. Our drive to Gries was
through a veritable garden, for the fruit
trees were abloom on every side. In the
afternoon we took the train to lliva, a train
which ran over the narrowest track I ever
saw, high up on the mountains.

lliva is a charming place at the head of
the lake, and has a most wonderful new
road cut through tunnels of rock along the
precipices of the west bank. I bought four
oranges just as we were going on board the
boat for the ridiculous sum of twenty heller
(five cents). You should have seen the man
who was selling them. He looked like1 the
genuine villain of comic opera. He wore a
black, broad-brimmed hat pulled low over
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his eyes, a full cape, which fell to his feet,
with a collar of well-worn fur, and gold ear-
rings. He was very gray and wrinkled, and
oh ! how he tried to cheat me ! I had
not had the sad and bitter experiences
of shopping in Rome six years ago for
nothing, however, and so I determined to
settle on a price and remain firm. Accord-
ingly I offered twenty heller for four oranges.
My Italian is not fluent. It is limited to
musical terms and a few selections from grand
opera. I tried to recall something fitting, but
the only lines which came to me were those of
an aria from Semir amide, which could hardly
be said to fit the occasion. How grieved,
how shocked he looked — the old rascal ! —
as he assured me that he could not permit
his wonderful fruit to be so cruelly sacrificed,
although nothing would delight him more
than to please the American signorina.
Accordingly I turned to go in dignified
silence. In a second the oranges were done
up in paper and given over, with the as-
tounding announcement that never before
in his life had he allowed his fruit to be sold
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at so absurd a sum, but — with a telling
glance from under his black hat — the
charms of the signorina were irresistible.
At my first opportunity I told of the bar-
gain I had made.

4 4 Twenty heller for four oranges ! ” ex-
claimed the gentleman who sat next us.
“ Why, my dear young lady, for thirty heller
(eight cents) I just bought a whole dozen ! ”

The sail down the lake is a beautiful one.
Such picturesque little towns nestling down
by the shore, such bewildering orange groves
along the hillsides, such quaint spired
churches perched in the most inaccessible
places ! The “ witchery of the soft blue
sky ” enchants one. The lake, too, is of a
wonderful tint. What a land this must be
for artists ! Such color, color everywhere !
I wonder they don’t all come over here and
live forever.

The card which I sent you from Miinchen,
told you we were going straight to Milan,
so you doubtless are wondering how we
chanced to stop off here. Just as we were
leaving Garda our boat ran aground. This

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caused the wildest commotion among the
townspeople who came flocking down to
the shore and stood in lines along the break-
water — the women and girls bareheaded,
with red shawls about their shoulders and
blue aprons over their short skirts, the
men and boys in loose shirts, with scarlet
handkerchiefs carelessly knotted about their
throats and any sort of a cap on the back
of their heads. They shouted to each other,
they gesticulated wildly, they speculated
on the length of time before we could be
launched. Indeed, I do not believe there
had been as much excitement in the little
village for years. So long were we delayed
that on inquiry we found that we should
arrive too late to catch the train for Milan,
and on the suggestion of an English lady
with whom we had become acquainted in
that delightfully informal way known to
travellers, we decided to stay at Gordone over
night. That is how I chanced to be writing
in this fascinating garden and to be hearing
how Italian birds sing their morning paean.

I did not have time before leaving
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Munchen to tell you of the last two concerts
we heard there. The first was the presen-
tation of Bach’s St. Matthew under the
direction of Zumpe, with the Hof-Theatre
chorus, orchestra and soloists. It strikes
me that the Germans do not know how to
sing oratorio. They lack that broad, canta-
bile style. Indeed, this branch of music is
heard least of all here. Outside of the
Rhine towns, which, I hear, have occasional
festivals, little interest is shown in oratorio.
At the St. Matthew the artists sang un-
sympathetically, but the choral singing was
magnificent. Is there anything in the
world grander, more truly religious than a
Bach choral ? One listens and the com-
plexities, the sordidness, the trivialities of
life all vanish. One feels only his own
insignificance and humbly raises his voice
with the rest in adoration of that Greatness
which is eternal.

The other concert was the last one in the
Weingartner series. The hall was packed
with people, many of whom were standing.
The program began with Cherubini’s over-
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ture to Anacreon. Then came a delightful
concerto by Haydn for strings, two obligato
violins and an obligato ’cello. Last of all
was Beethoven’s ninth symphony. The
stage had been enlarged to accommodate
the big chorus. This was the first time I
had ever heard this stupendous work. The
singers sang with great spirit and as though
they loved every note. What a magnificent
main theme that is with the rushing counter -
point in the strings ! I should think the clari-
net players would be in their element, there
are so many lovely bits for that instrument.
And the drum in the scherzo — who could
ever forget it?

At the close of the concert Weingartner
was presented with an enormous laurel
wreath, amid the prolonged cheers and ap-
plause of the audience. After coming out
repeatedly to bow his thanks, he finally ex-
pressed them in a graceful little speech. I
was too far away to catch all that he said,
but at the end his Auf Wiedersehen bis
ndchstes Jcthr (Till we meet again next
year) brought forth a tremendous thunder
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immimiiiiTiiirimimiiiiiiimiixiiiniinriimiiiiiiiiniisiiitttTi

of applause. And so exit Weingartner. I
do hope I shall see him conduct again before
I leave Germany.

This afternoon we take the boat across the
lake and then the train to Milan, — so addio
carissima, as they say in this lovely country.

Milan, Easter Sunday,
1.20 A. M.

Easter Sunday is just beginning, and I am
about to retire after an evening spent at La
Scala in hearing Verdi’s Un Hallo in Mas -
chera. Am I living in another world ? Can
Germany and the dear old Hof- Theatre be
but a day’s trip away ? When one has for
months been going to the opera at seven
and returning at the discreet hour of nine-
thirty it seems nothing less than wild dis-
sipation to find the final curtain falling in the
wee small hours o’ the night. Milan and
Munchen may bear a certain euphonic
similarity, but they are really as unlike as
black and white.

In the Munich opera house we are gener-
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ally directed to our seats by a languorous
gesture of the hand and a pertinent glance
towards the desired row. Here, however,
the usher seized our checks, muttered to
himself, shouted excitedly to a fellow-usher,
tried to direct us and several other people
at once, urged us to hurry, and finally landed
us breathless in our places. There were yet
five minutes before the overture.

La Scala is an enormous opera house, and
its stage stretches beneath one like a great
plain. To be sure, after a winter of Wag-
nerian harmonies, Verdi’s music sounded
somewhat colorless, but oh ! the language !
I cannot tell you what a peaceful, refreshing
change it was to hear a soft Cielo ! issue
from the soprano’s lips, instead of the Ach ,
Gott ! to which we were accustomed ; and
to remark how easily the tenor floated along
on broad ahs instead of struggling over a
succession of gutturals. Don’t imagine that
I sneer at German. It is a grand, strong
language, but for song there is nothing in
the world like this melodious tongue of the
South.

16

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We were surprised and pleased to meet

in the lobby Mr. P , a Harvard man

whom I had met at college. He is study-
ing voice in Milan, and told me not a little
about student life here. It seems that it is
the height of a singer’s ambition to make
his debut at La Scala which Toscanini, the
conductor, rules with a rod of iron. The
students receive no advantages in the way
of tickets, as our Kategorie-Karten afford
us in Munich. He also told me that opera
monopolizes the field of music.

“It is true that Toscanini gives a series
of orchestral concerts after the season, but
they are, as a rule, unsuccessful,” he said.
“We have small chance to study purely
orchestral music.”

“ Are many W agner operas produced
here ? ” I asked.

“ Oh, yes, Wagner is growing in favor,
but the Italians love best their own school.”

The tenor, Zenatello, who sang Ricardo,
seemed to be a great favorite. The audience
applauded and cheered him repeatedly. Mr.

P says he has been on the stage but a

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short time. There was one singer of whom
the people decidedly disapproved, to judge
by the hissing which greeted him every time
he made his appearance. I really pitied
him, although he did sing atrociously.

The curtain fell at twelve o’clock. To
our surprise a ballet, or rather a pantomime
followed. It was a most elaborate produc-
tion lasting an hour, but had nothing to do
with what went before, and to tell the truth
I was too sleepy to enjoy it much. And
now good night. We are off for the lakes
on Monday.

[243]

Munich, May 11.

Cecilia dear : —

E HAVE SEEN THE LAKES

and are back in the pension once
more. Although I intended to

send you a line from there we have been so
constantly on the go that letter- writing has
been an impossibility. Of course we 44 did ”
Milan thoroughly. On Easter morning we
heard mass at the glorious cathedral. The
music, rendered by two boy choirs with or-
gan accompaniment, was very fine. After it
was over we climbed up on the roof. As I
stood there among the myriads of fairy-like
spires, carved columns and slender pinnacles,
I realized for the first time the meaning of
that oft-quoted phrase, 44 architecture is
frozen music.” It was as though a whole
orchestra were playing con sordini.

W e had a delightful trip to Pallanza, row-
ing across to Isola Bella, where Napoleon
slept before the battle of Marengo, and on
to M enaggio and mountain-girt Lugano ;
but of all the places I saw Bellagio remains

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in my memory as the most charming. I
think der liebe Gott must have said to
Himself, “ Here I will make the loveliest
spot in the world.” I cannot begin to
describe it to you, but will try to tell you
about it when I return.

At our first dinner after we came back we
were surprised to find Frau von Waldfel in
her old place. We had expected she would
remain much longer in Berlin. Fraulein’s
chair was, however, empty, and I learned
that she was ill.

“ She is overtired,” explained her aunt ;
“ but if she does not improve by to-morrow
I shall call a physician.”

During the entire meal she spoke much
more gently than is her wont, and did not
engage in a single discussion about her food.
I really think she is anxious concerning
Fraulein’s health.

The time seems frightfully short as I look
ahead and realize that in two months it will
all be over. I wish, indeed, that the days
were longer. I am working very hard just
now ; there is so much to accomplish by the
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end of June ! After all, life is a grand op-
portunity to develop the possibilities in a
person, and although the greater part of us
who want to do something worth while will
never attain our goal, I believe we are all
the broader and better for the struggle.
Heigho ! The little brown bird on the tree
outside squints up his eyes and says in very
translatable German bird-talk, “ Cease phi-
losophizing, American stranger, and set to
work on the thing which lies nearest.”
Therefore, good-by for the present, and a
fresh attack on my fugue !

Tuesday evening .

The doctor came to see Fraulein Hartmann
last week and has been here daily since. This
morning he pronounced her illness pneu-
monia. Every one in the house from Georg
and Gretchen to the Poet himself feels very
anxious about her. A quiet, black-gowned
sister of charity has been installed as nurse,
and the farther end of the floor below trans-
formed into a miniature hospital. Lieu-
tenant Blum daily inquires after the patient.

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cxxxxxxxxixxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxiiinuxixxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxj

If he does not come himself he sends his
orderly.

Yesterday as I chanced to look out of the
window I noticed a young man seated on a
bench under the trees looking intently up
at the house. His glance seemed to be
directed towards Fraulein Hartmann’s win-
dow. A half-hour later I saw him walk
slowly, thoughtfully away. It was the same
man who was in the arbor at the carnival
ball — and must be Heinrich. Y ou may be
sure that I shall keep you informed about
the Fraulein, for she is very much in my
thoughts at present.

The one break in my regular routine of
study this week has been a visit to the
clubhouse, or Corpshaus , as they say here,
of the Sue via. Mutter clien and I were the
guests of Herr Martens, who belongs to this
student club. To my mind the most inter-
esting thing about the house is that it was
originally built by Ludwig II. for Richard
Wagner.

We entered by a side door which led into
a hall. On the right was a counter and
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above it, around it and beneath it, hung
hundreds of beer steins decorated with the
arms of the corps. On the left was a high
rack full of pipes, beneath which were rows
of short jackets trimmed with black, blue
and white, the club colors. On a shelf was
a pile of round black caps with bands of
blue and white.

We passed through the low door into the
hall or Kneipe. It is a handsome room
decorated with flags, shields and foils. The
furniture is dark and very richly carved. At
the farther end the ceiling is dome-shaped and
frescoed with the arms of the corps. Here
the students meet evenings. The other
rooms of the house are far less elaborate,
and almost all contain pictures of students
duelling, for in order to enter this exclusive
club one must first of all be a good fighter.

The bowling-alley was a failure as a bowl-
ing-alley, but as a picture gallery it was a
great success. Around the room ran a
double row of students’ photographs, about
five inches in height. There were all sorts
of students and they never failed to have
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the scarred side of their faces towards
the camera. Each wore the cap of their^
corps.

“Now I must take you into the main
house. This is only the ell, you know,”
said our guide.

“ And — and do you fight there ? ” asked
Mutterchen hesitatingly. I think she had
visions of walking in on a crowd of masked
creatures fiercely plunging at one another
with swords.

Herr Martens laughed in hearty German
fashion. “ There is a small room up six
flights in a house not far away,” he said.
“We hire it especially for fighting. You
know that duelling of any sort is strictly
prohibited by the police. But if one is n’t a
good fighter he cannot join the corps, so of
course we have to have a place where we
can fight secretly.”

I glanced at his deeply scarred cheek and
remarked that I had seen several students
on the Parada Sunday wearing tightly fit-
ting black skull-caps.

“That is because they have head injuries,”
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rrrTYTTTiiiTiiinmnmixmxiximiiiiiimmmmimiiiiiiirn itttttti

he explained. Then he added proudly, “ I
have forty-two scars.”

Mutterchen gasped. I endeavored to
look properly impressed.

“ But what do you find to fight about in
these peaceful times ? ” I asked, after what
I considered to be a reverential pause.

“Oh, anything serves as a pretext,” he
answered, quite frankly. “ The students
are always quarrelling over something or
other. It ’s rather good fun to settle it by
swords.”

“ And at home they call football brutal,”
murmured Mutterchen in my ear.

Making our way through reading-rooms,
lounging-rooms and card-rooms, we came
out on a delightful roof-garden.

“ W e sit out dances here when we have a
ball,” said Herr Martens.

Mutterchen and I both waxed enthusiastic,
not only over the garden, but over the whole
house, which compares very favorably with
our handsomest college clubhouses in Amer-
ica. The only incongruous feature was the
air-tight stove in every room. This fact
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brings forcibly to mind that in spite of
everything else Germany is years and years
behind us in comforts and conveniences.

I have been so busy lately that I have
studied evenings too, so have heard but one
opera since my return. That was “ Louise,”
by the French composer Charpentier. It is
distinctly modern and extremely interesting.
Some of the scenes belong to the real opera
comique. There is one laid in a dressmaker’s
establishment. The curtain rises on a room
full of girls sewing and gossiping. Sud-
denly a band is heard and the tramp of feet.
You would have laughed to see the girls
jump up on the tables and crane their necks
to get a view of the soldiers out of the win-
dow ! The finale is very effective and the
whole thing has the merit of being essentially
realistic. There is no coloratura soprano
carolling gayly in the neighborhood of
high C about her broken heart. There is no
basso profundo singing a drinking song, and
at the end descending diatonically till he
lands on low D, solemnly assuring us there
is nothing like

[ 254]

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ITTTTTYTT rT T T

f A A A

Wi - i - ine, di - vine.

nor any of the other traditional absurdities
which we accept as a matter of course. On
the other hand, it seems to me that real-
ism carried to the nt\\ degree is quite as ridic-
ulous. In the fourth scene of the first act,
Louise (charmingly sung by Morena) with
her father and mother sit around a table in
the centre of the stage for fully five minutes
without uttering a syllable. What do you
think they are doing ? Eating soup ! Mean-
while the orchestra is playing beautiful
music, elaborating a theme which I called
motif du potage. To what are we coming
next ?

Our table is not so deserted as you might
imagine, in spite of the absence of Frau von
Waldfel and her niece, for Fraulein Werner,
the novelist, has come to stay some weeks
at the pension. She is an odd-looking
woman with shrewd brown eyes, red cheeks
and very black hair. She talks a great deal
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An American Girl in Munich

and is decidedly interesting. You know
that almost all her novels have been trans-
lated into English and are much read in
America. She is, therefore, greatly inter-
ested in our country and asks many ques-
tions about it, although she declares that
her fear of the sea will prevent her from
ever setting foot on our shores.

Between you and me, I have generally
found that people who “ do things” are
horrible bores socially. Nevertheless they
have a certain charm, and that reminds
me to tell you that I am to meet the
opera singer Morena on Friday. Madame

A is to give an informal tea for her

and has asked me to come. Y ou can

fancy how delighted I am, for I can never
forget her well-nigh perfect rendering of
Leonora in Fidelio and her Elizabeth in
Tannhauser .

Sunday.

Such an enjoyable time as we had at

Madame A ’s tea on Friday. We

were entertained in the cosiest of roof-gar-
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dens, high up above the noise of the city.
Morena did not arrive till late, but Burger,
one of the leading tenors at the opera house,
was there with his pretty young bride. He
it was who sang Siegmund in Die W alkilre.
At half-past five came the sound of laughter
on the stairs, the sharp barking of a dog, and
— enter Morena, dressed in a white gown
with a big black picture hat. “ What a
glorious creature ! ” I said to myself. I
have told you that she is very tall and hand-
some, with beautiful dark eyes. Her man-
ner is utterly unaffected and charming. In
five minutes she was laughing and chatter-
ing with us all, and consuming numerous
chocolate cakes with all the enthusiasm of a
child. Later it was my good fortune to
have a talk with her all by myself in the
course of which she asked many questions
about America. She intends crossing
within a short time, for it seems that Con-
ried has heard her sing and wants to intro-
duce her to New York audiences.

After she had gone — she stayed only
half an hour — we all went into the music-
17 [ 257 ]

An American Girl in Munich

room and heard a young American singer
who has taken the stage name of de Zara 1
sing several selections from the roles
of Carmen and Santuzza. It was a great
treat to hear her, for she has a voice of
unusual promise. I wish you could have
been with us ! As a souvenir you shall
see Morena’s photograph which I shall bring
back, with her autograph across the corner.

These are such busy days ! We are
finishing up the work at the school and re-
hearsing Berlioz’s “ Childhood of Christ ” for
the closing concert. This afternoon at my
piano hour the little Boer girl did n ’t come,
so I had double my usual time for reading
at sight. Fraulein Fischer and I played the
Saint-Saens variations on a theme of Beet-
hoven’s for two pianos. Do you know it ?
I think it great, especially the big fugue at
the end.

We have made two out-of-town trips
lately, one to Starnberger-See and the other
to the Isar-Thal. But it is time for me
to go to my lesson now, so I shall have

1 She died in Munich the following year.

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to save telling you about them till another
time.

Believe me, dearest of friends,

As ever and always, —

M.

Fraulein Hartmann is about the same,
and the doctor assures us that there is no
immediate danger.

[259]

XI

cxxxxxxxxxxxixxxxxxxxxxxzxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxk

June 28 .

CONFUSION REIGNED ON THE
floor below between the hours of four
and five to-day — a somewhat muffled
confusion, to be sure, for the proximity of the
sick-room forbade any violent outburst, but
none the less confusion of a most exciting
character. As I came in from my com-
position lesson, I found maids running this
way and that, their arms full of clothing and
packages. Georg and an unknown JJienst-
mann were carrying a trunk downstairs ;
Frau von Waldfel was kneeling before a
hamper, giving orders through the open
door of her room, while the Poet’s Wife, a
hat-box in one hand and a parrot cage in the
other, was endeavoring to preserve order in
the midst of chaos. She came out to speak
to me as I halted on the landing.

“Frau von Waldfel has just received a
telegram demanding her immediate presence
in Budapest,” she explained. “ Some serious
business complications have arisen, and she
is hurrying to catch the six o’clock train to-
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night. Fraulein knows nothing of this and
we do not dare excite her. Frau von Wald-
fel is greatly distressed at the thought of
leaving her, and so I have offered to take
charge of the sick-room during her absence.”

“ That is so like you,” I said, impulsively.
“ I ’ll just leave my music books upstairs and
come directly back, for perhaps I can be of
some help.”

When I returned Frau von Waldfel was
standing in the hall, dressed for the journey.
She looked anxious and preoccupied as she
shook hands in a perfunctory manner and
counted her bag, her bundle, her umbrellas
and her parrot cage three times before allow-
ing the servants to carry them down to the
droschky waiting below. Then occurred
something which makes me regard her in a
far more kindly light than I have been wont
to do. She took the hands of the Poet’s
Wife in both her own.

“ What should I have done without you ! ”
she said. I never dreamed that her voice
could be so gentle. “ Take care of the child
and let me know daily how she is. Years
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ago I lost a little one of my own — the only
child I ever had — and I could n’t bear to
lose Minna too. Here, Georg,” with a sud-
den change to her old peremptory manner,
“ take this bag down.”

She turned to descend the stairs but there
were tears, actually tears in her eyes, which
softened their beady hardness and made
them almost beautiful.

“ Poor woman ! ” said the Poet’s Wife
softly, as we heard the rattle of departing
wheels.

Then she hurried off to prepare the Frau-
lein’s gruel, and I came up to write you.
Really I do not know whom to pity most,
Frau von Waldfel, the dear Fraulein, or
Heinrich, who is eating his heart out from
day to day.

Now to tell you of some of the things I
have been doing lately. First, I heard Die
Master singer for the second time. If one
were to see a hundred productions of this
wonderful work I am sure he would discover
new beauties on the hundred and first hear-
ing ! Is there anything more lovely than the
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quintette ? Is there anything more marvel-
lously worked out than that street scene ?
Once I was so impressed by the complexity
of the score that I actually forgot to listen
and simply sat and wondered at the genius
of Wagner. Feinhals was the Hans Sach,
Fraulein Ivoboth, Eva, and Geis, Beckmes-
ser. The opera began at six and was not
over till after eleven, with two pauses of
fifteen minutes each between the acts. You
would have laughed to see the bored expres-
sions of two Americans who sat next us.
They declared to each other, thinking doubt-
less that there was no one to understand
them, that they never were so glad in their
lives when the final curtain fell. Why on
earth didn’t they rise and go out? Not
two minutes later I saw them again in the
Gar derobe, and overheard the gentleman say
to another American whom he had met, “ De-
lightful, was it not ? ” while his wife joined
in with, “Isn’t Wagner simply delicious?”
O departed gods of Olympus, is there any-
thing more disheartening than this Fashion-
able Insincerity ?

[266]

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If my remarks about Fashionable Insin-
cerity and Modern Indifference (for they
are formidable enough to be capitalized)
would seem to show a disbelief in the exist-
ence of that simple faith which the poet
assures us is better than a long line of ances-
tors, believe me, appearances are misleading,
for even if I had had a tendency in that di-
rection the Corpus Christi celebrations would
have banished it on the spot. These will
always remain to me beautiful and sacred,
and as an indisputable proof that Simplicity
and Sincerity do not belong solely to a dis-
tant past.

On Corpus Christi morning we were
called at six o’clock in order not to miss
the great procession which for hundreds of
years has annually on this day wended its
way through the streets of the city. As we
walked towards Max-Joseph-Platz we found
everywhere the most charming decorations.
Instead of conventional banners and bunting,
rows of fresh green birch trees about six
feet high were fastened against the houses
as if growing up from the sidewalk. From
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the window ledges hung square pieces of
cloth of red and blue. On turning into
Theatiner-strasse what was our surprise to
find a great altar erected in the very centre
of the street. It was high and triangular
in form, outlined by these same delicate
birch trees. Yellow draperies of satin con-
cealed the wooden framework itself. In
the centre was a great crucifix, and the
sight of this sacred symbol in the midst of
a busy thoroughfare was startlingly impres-
sive. Through the middle of the street,
where the procession was to pass, grass had
been strewn. But just as we reached the
cafe the rain began to fall in torrents. This
was the end of it for that day. The altar
was hastily demolished, carts were driven
up to carry away the draperies, and people
with disappointed faces came crowding
under cover. We learned that the pro-
cession must be postponed till Sunday,
although the Prince Regent and the golden
carriages — such an important feature of
the occasion — would not appear.

Somewhat crestfallen, we returned to the

[268]

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pension . But by Sunday our interest had
again awakened. This time it was not till
eight o’clock that we stationed ourselves on
a balcony overlooking the street, from which
point we had an excellent view of the
procession below. First came a number of
priests in splendid robes, bearing a holy
banner. Then followed a double row of
little girls on each side of the street. Some
of them could not have been over three
years old. They were all dressed in white,
with white wreaths on their heads, and
carried bouquets of vari-colored blossoms.
Between the two double rows were four
little tots bearing the image of the Virgin.
You have no idea what a lovely picture
they made. Then came a brass band with
a choir of bareheaded boys and students
singing hymns. Behind were more priests
with banners ; a body of young girls in white,
carrying unlighted tapers and chanting
prayers in unison ; sisters of charity, school-
girls, then another band and a choir of older
men, singing. Just below the house was
one of these altars which I have described,
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built on the sidewalk against the side of a
building. When the procession stopped for
a few minutes a service was held here,
several priests stepping out from their places
in line to officiate. Those who were near
turned towards the altar and followed the
rites, while the others kept on with their
praying and singing with intense devoutness
and earnestness.

I wish I might describe to you how
solemn and impressive it was — the voices
of the chanting priests ; the murmur of
prayers rising from hundreds of lips ; the
distant music of those grand old chorals ;
the incense, floating up in thin clouds from
the swinging censers below; above all the
absolute simplicity and devotion of the
people. My eyes filled with tears. Skepti-
cism, doubt, hypocrisy, seemed to be
merely delusions of another world. Un-
consciously the lines of the Persian poet
came to my mind, and I murmured softly
to myself,

“ He that tossed you down into the Field,

He knows about it all — He knows — He knows ! ”

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The school year at the Conservatory
closes witli examinations for which I am
now preparing. Then as my last task
Thuille desires that I write an overture.
(A finale would seem more appropriate,
wouldn’t it ?) My second theme came in a
moment, but I wrote fully a dozen first
themes before I found one which would
answer my purpose. Now I am doing the
most interesting part of all — the scoring
for orchestra. Of course this is only for
practice and I never expect to hear it
played, but as Mr. Chadwick used to say,
“ The only way to learn how to compose is to
compose,” so good-by, while I go on with
the development section.

[ 271 ]

XII

ixtxtxixxxxxixixxxxixxxxixxxixxxxxxxxxixxxxxixixxxxxxxxxixiixxixxxixixxiix:

July 10.

Good news at last about

Fraulein Hartmann ! The crisis is
past and she is much better. We
all feel so relieved, especially the Poet’s
Wife, who is beginning to show the strain of
the past weeks. Frau von Waldfel writes
that her affairs are in a far worse condition
than she anticipated. In fact she appears to
be greatly disturbed, which accounts for her
having written but twice since she went away.
Lieutenant Blum called yesterday. He has
been here but once since Frau von Waldfel’s
departure. Doesn’t that strike you as
rather extraordinary ? I was in the room
when he came, and I could but notice how
closely he questioned the Poet’s Wife about
Frau von Waldfel’s last letter. Indeed he
seemed much more interested in her business
troubles than in the condition of his fiancee.
Is it possible that it is only her money that
he is after ? To tell the truth the thought has
occurred to me before, but I never deemed
it worthy of consideration till now.

[m]

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Every day the Fraulein receives beautiful
blue flowers such as one finds in the Isar-
Thal if one looks carefully enough. The
servants think they are the gift of her
betrothed, so do not gossip over his non-
appearance, but the Poet’s Wife and I know
better. We have not seen Heinrich daily
pacing to and fro in the park opposite with-
out learning many things. Do you know,
when I see him looking up with yearning
eyes at Fraulein’s window, I always think
of the poet in Bernard Shaw’s “ Candida.”
The expression of Heinrich’s face says as
plainly as words, “We hold our tongues.
Does that stop the cry of the heart ? — for
it does cry: doesn’t it? It must, if you
have a heart.”

Yesterday and to-day examinations were
held at the Conservatory. At eight o’clock
all the professors appeared in the dignity of
frock coats and black ties. They shut
themselves up in a large room on the top
floor, and one by one the pupils were called
in to be examined before them. The only
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An American Girl in Munich

examination which was really trying was
that in the history of music. Had it been
a written one I should have approached it
with only the usual nervousness, but an oral
test is quite a different thing when one is
a foreigner. All the pupils filed in together
and sat in a single row on the platform.
Before us was the formidable mass of profes-
sors with folded arms. Just in front of them
was Stavenhagen behind a table and two
other men who wrote down what we said.
Before the director was a box full of paper
slips on which were written the questions.
When a pupil’s name was called, he went to
the box, drew three questions, and declaimed
his answers to the joint audience of pupils and
teachers. As I have told you, whenever I
am nervous my German becomes affected in
a peculiar fashion. I find myself forgetting
words with remarkable rapidity and I insist
on employing the English order of expres-
sion, which, to a Miinchener, is nothing less
than a mild form of madness. However, I
managed to get through by not allowing
the amused faces of the onlookers to trouble

[ m ]

An American Girl in Munich

me, and although I discovered afterwards
that I had called “ The Damnation of
Faust” an oratorio and had mixed my
genders in the most ludicrous fashion, I
was successfully “passed.”

Now only the concert remains before the
school closes for the summer. Then we are
to take our final trip before sailing for home.
Our itinerary has been specially planned to
include places of musical interest and we are
to go to Mozart’s birthplace, Salzburg ; Leip-
sic, crowded with memories of Bach and
Wagner; Vienna where Beethoven, Schu-
bert, and Brahms lie buried ; Berlin, Dresden,
and Bremen. We may run down to Buda-
pest, since we are so near, and thus have an
opportunity to hear a bona fide Hungarian
orchestra. Isn’t that fine, and does n’t it
make you long to be with us ?

Now no more for the present, my dear,
as I want my last lesson for Thuille to be a
good one, and my orchestration work is
unfinished.

[278]

An American Girl in Munich

July 17 :

The blow has fallen ! To-day the
Fraulein received a letter from Frau von
Waldfel, saying that she has lost everything,
even her personal property, through an un-
wise investment. The poor woman is in great
distress of mind with lawyers, creditors, and
what not, but these lines at the end of her
letter impressed me more strongly than all
the rest : “ I have just heard from Lieu-
tenant Blum. He writes that he releases
you from your betrothal, ‘ realizing that
in this present trouble Fraulein Hartmann
can have no heart for festivities.’ The sly
fellow has had private information of my
affairs here, and doubtless learned that if I
scrape together all I have there will be just
enough for your dowry and no more. Evi-
dently he had hopes of living on my income
after you both were married. It seems as
though my present ill-fortune were enough
without enduring this fresh disappointment.”
My cheeks burned with indignation as I
read. “ The English employ a word which
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An American Girl in Munich

just suits this officer of the German army,
and that is cad!” said I, decisively.

Fraulein Hartmann looked at the blue
flowers in her lap and smiled gently. There
was a light in her eyes — a light indefinably
beautiful — that I had never seen there
before.

44 Poor Auntie deserves all the sympathy
you can give her,” she said, 44 but as for my-
self— well, I have n’t been as happy for
months. I feel as though a great weight had
been lifted from my heart. After all, kleine
Amerikanerin ,” she continued naively, 44 don't
you think that people are happier without a
lot of money to look after ? Although six
months ago the thought of all the delightful
things money could buy ”

4 4 Including a lieutenant ? ” I interrupted,
involuntarily.

“Yes, including a lieutenant,” she smil-
ingly went on, 44 dazzled me, and made me
a bit contemptuous of my Mannheim sur-
roundings, now I really believe that our
little home there is the loveliest, dearest spot
in the whole world.”

[280]

A n American Girl in Munich

“ With Heinrich next door,” I added.

“ Perhaps nearer than next door,” said
the Poet’s Wife, caressing the girl’s blushing
cheek, “ at least if we are to believe what
he told us this morning.”

“ Dear,” said the Fraulein, taking my
hand in hers and speaking in those sweet,
earnest tones which made her so winning,
“did you think me very wicked and de-
ceitful that night at the carnival ball ? It
has troubled me so much — the thought

that you must despise me ”

“ I won’t allow you to say that,” I inter-
posed hastily.

“ Yes, it always is a despicable thing to
do — to deceive,” she continued ; “ but I did
so want to talk to Heinrich, and explain to
him how things were. He wrote me a piti-
ful letter, begging to see me just once, and
I was so unhappy that I finally devised that
meeting. Now that we have been through
all this I feel sure that my parents will have
no objections to our marrying. They have
always been fond of Heinrich. It was only
the thought of my brilliant match that
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An American Girl in Munich

made them ignore, as it were, his very
existence.”

“Just as soon as she is well enough to
travel I am going to take her home,” said
the Poet’s Wife to me. “ Heinrich is wait-
ing here in Munich to go down with us.
He is doing very well, by the bye, in his law
work.”

“ Yes, indeed,” said Fraulein eagerly, “ and
sometimes next year when — when we are
settled — you will come down and visit us —
promise you will, meine Amerikanerin /”

I promised, and lingered a few moments
longer to learn more of her plans. Then
the Poet’s Wife insisted that she had had
excitement enough for one day, and we both
left her leaning back in her chair and, with
an expression of unutterable happiness, gaz-
ing dreamily out over the swaying tree-tops
of the Platz.

At three o’clock I was at Ainmuller-strasse
for my last lesson with Herr Professor. Did
I tell you that some weeks ago I made a
translation into English of the Rosenlied
(Rose-song) by Anna Ritter ? Thuille has
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A n A merican Girl in Munich

written a three-part song for women’s voices
to these charming words and asked me if I
would put them into English for him. To-
day he gave me the first published copy
and wrote across the bottom the following
inscription : “ M drier lichen Schulerin ; zur
freundlichen Erinnerung. L. Thuille.” (To
my dear pupil in friendly remembrance.
L. Thuille.)

* I had brought as my lesson the overture
for orchestra on which 1 have been spending
considerable time lately, and a little song
which occurred to me the other day at Tut-
zing. Nothing pleases Thuille so much as
a completed piece of work, so I had worked
very hard to finish the overture in time ; hi
fact, even sitting up late at night, which is
against all rules. He was pleased with the
result and declared the song to be the best
thing of its kind that I have done this year,
which made me very happy. I did not mind
that my eyes were tired.

“ Take a good rest, Fraulein,” he said.
“You must surely come back to us all next
year. And here is a souvenir, so that you
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An American Girl in Munich

will not forget your old teacher when you
are in far-away America.”

The souvenir proved to be a photograph
of himself, taken from the large oil painting
which hangs in the salon. Beneath it he had
written his name with some bars of music
from Gugeline .

I thanked him repeatedly as we shook
hands. Then I went down stairs with a
vague regret in my heart as I realized that
the year’s work was over.

On Tuesday evening occurred the closing
concert at the Conservatory. The stage
was decorated with plants, and a marble bust
of the Prince Regent occupied the place of
honor. W e sang the “ Childhood of Christ,”
by Berlioz, which, as I wrote you, we have
lately been rehearsing. At the close of the
concert came the award of medals for special
excellency in the work of the school. Do
you not feel proud when I tell you that out
of the ten medals presented two were cap-
tured by American girls? Miss Bartholo-
may from Buffalo, a pupil of Stavenhagen,
received one. Among the German girls I
[ 284 ]

An American Girl in Munich

was especially glad that Fraulein Marianne
Br [inner, of Vienna, was awarded a prize, for
I like her playing better than that of any
one else in the school. She is also a pupil
of Stavenhagen, and has unusual tempera-
ment and a splendid touch.

Mutterchen was very proud when it was
all over, and she found me in the dressing-
room exchanging congratulations with a
number of pupils. It was hard to say good-
by to them all, for the association which
study of any kind brings forms a certain
bond not easy to break. The little Boer
girl, who is to stay another year, is terribly
homesick for South Africa, and wept heart-
rendingly as we parted. The Germai} girls
all wished me a “Gate Reisc ” (pleasant jour-
ney), and bade me not forget Munchen
when I was again on American soil ; my
Irish friend, who sits next me in the chorus,
promised to write and keep me informed of
all the doings in the school ; Fraulein Fischer
and Frau Bianci insisted that I come another
year and study with them, and Stavenhagen
shook hands heartily and wished me success.

[285 1

An American Girl in Munich

And now all that remains is to pack our
trunks and shake the dust of Munich from
our feet. I hate to leave the quaint old
city and these warm-hearted German people,
for I have grown very fond of both during
my stay. Then there is the Obelisk and
the Fountain, not to mention the other
friends we must leave behind us. Edith
and Louise have already gone to Paris, and
Polly is somewhere in the Hartz mountains
taking a holiday before starting for Vienna,
where she is to study with Lescheticsky.
In a few days we shall be scattered like
leaves before the wind, some this way and
some that. The year has been very rich in
experience and pleasure, but, believe me, I
shall not be sorry when we spread our sails
for the harbor of New York and say to these
friendly shores, “ Auf wiedersehen .”

[286]

Mr. Oppenheim s New Novel

THE GREAT SECRET

By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
Illustrated by C. D. Williams. Cloth, $1.50

In his latest novel Mr. Oppenheim deals with a stu-
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A remarkable piece of writing. — Pall Mall Gazette.

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it is curiously fertile in character, incident, and sensation,
and it works its way outward to a remarkable climax.
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ON THE FIRING LINE

By ANNA CHAPIN RAY
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Mr. Oppenheim s most Romantic Novel

THE

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By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

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Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. 12mo. $1.50

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By SIDNEY McCALL
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12mo. Cloth, 431 pages. $1.50

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